


We Are Here to Unlearn

by MajorEnglishEsquire



Series: Buy the Ticket, Take the Ride [5]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Anxiety, Background Relationships, Barebacking, Bathtubs, Blood and Gore, Canon-Typical Violence, Coffee, Demons, Depression, Driving, Fights, Fluff, Guns, Height Differences, Hunters & Hunting, Injury, Intoxication, M/M, Marriage, Marriage Proposal, Men of Letters Bunker, Monster of the Week, Mythical Beings & Creatures, Oral Sex, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Sobriety, Temporary Character Death, Top Sam, Violence, Work In Progress
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-01-18
Updated: 2018-03-10
Packaged: 2018-05-14 16:23:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 12
Words: 357,378
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5750023
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MajorEnglishEsquire/pseuds/MajorEnglishEsquire
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Chuck's thumb does its erratic circuit over the back of his hand.</p><p>"I want you with me for the rest of my life," Sam says. "Just. If that was in any way unclear."</p><p>"Hmm," Chuck nods. "You should keep saying that whenever it occurs to you."</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. this place is flatter than it seems

**Author's Note:**

> References Season 10 events and follows [Stamp Me with Your Signature](http://archiveofourown.org/works/3829039?view_full_work=true) and [When the Going Gets Weird](http://archiveofourown.org/works/4369628?view_full_work=true). **Dean/Cas side pairing**. Charlie is still alive because fuck you.
> 
> I do not own the rights to these characters, setting, show, etc. No harm is intended.
> 
>  
> 
> ***** Warning for mention of attempted sexual assault (this chapter only) - yes, I mean in reference to ep 07.08 *****

He worried, at first, that he'd thought it too loud and it sounded like _choose me_ , even if he was still one-hundred-percent positive that this wasn't _actually happening_.

So when Chuck did it anyway - when Chuck chose him anyway - for the third or fourth or tenth or fifteenth or thousandth time, he was going to press his thumb into his palm. Sam was going to jam that old scar hard and make _damn_ sure that Chuck was his reality.

 _If it wasn't fucked up, you wouldn't have believed it was your life_ , one last time.

He wanted to press his thumb into his palm at the same time he wanted to insist "yes" again to Chuck's wide eyes.

So it was a good thing Chuck had to handle his whole huge paw to turn it and calm it and twist the ring onto his finger.

Sam pressed Chuck's thumb in, instead, against the old dead nerve damage from too much abuse and the dark jagged lines of the scar. Wanting to trust it _that much_.

Nothing flickered and hadn't for a few years now.

Chuck's pulse in his palm. The metal of the ring warm from being in Chuck's pocket.

And holy shit.  
Holy shit.

Holy shit.  
Do demon-blooded boys get to get married?

«»

He might fall to a few messy pieces with Chuck drawn across himself in the car, afterwards. If it wasn't fucked up, he wouldn't know it was real.

He's going to write those words on a piece of paper and bury them in Bobby's yard. Because he will know, all while building and all while living there and all while watching gray creep into Chuck's beard that the paper is rotting back into carbon under a tree, just like so many monster bones. Just like mom did in the house fire and dad on his pyre and like Dean would have in Illinois if love didn't _actually and in all reality save him_.

His fingers fold tight into Chuck and he cries on him. He's watched Chuck do this a dozen beautiful, painful times and this probably doesn't hold the same meaning to him except.

Chuck lets him and only wipes his face.

Chuck knows what Lucifer said and he knows the inside of Sam's head. This is what he's here for.

It isn't fucked up. It's the opposite. And it is his life anyway. Nothing about the person holding him right now is fucked up. Sometimes Chuck may think of himself as an old drunk holding on by a thread, but he really isn't _just that_ and he is _not_ fucked up - there is nothing twisted or desperate or sacrificial or awful about this at all and it's still Sam's reality.

In any reality Sam would choose to believe that what Chuck says is true: that this is what he's here for. Sitting on him, sitting here with him and telling him that, yes, he's loved enough by someone for this to honestly be happening.

So, really, the only versions of the universe in which that might not be true just don't matter at all.

«»

He's up and awake and up, over and over in the night. Sam is used to the weight of Chuck in his arms. That's not what wakes him. Maybe it's little-kid excitement and he never really sleeps. He stares at Chuck's neck a lot, that's for goddamn sure. And he hears a replay-replay-replay of words in his head. Everything Chuck said at Starbucks and everything that Sam maybe didn't know was hinting at the end result.

And Dean.

Dean on the phone, funny-angry about them finding the Colt and already wanting his hands wrapped around the battered old handle.

"You know." Dean seemed to roll his lips and kick his shoe against the kitchen cabinet, reluctant to push it again because, yeah. Sometimes there's no faster way to get Sam to refuse to do something than to remind him to. "You know," Dean had said, "you should really just ask him, Sam. You would probably just."

Yeah. Probably just feel good. Probably just know.  
He's not annoyed with Dean for repeating that anymore.

Chuck isn't psychic. Chuck isn't still a prophet.

And he beat Sam to it, anyway.

 _Lemme just get this straight_ , Dean had said in Burns, _You haven't asked Chuck to marry you?_

Yeah.  
Yeah.

He slips out of bed and it barely bothers Chuck so he doesn't even kiss him on his head. Gets into sweats and doesn't kiss Chuck and unlocks the door and doesn't kiss Chuck and walks as he stretches.

There's a tiny oasis across the parking lot with a strip of plastic bags on a post above a trash can. Like a dog park with all of one puny tree.

He gives a final stretch to start running and turns and sits on the curb in a parking space and wrestles his phone from his pocket. Like jesus fucking christ.

He's sweating.

More than he would be if he were running by this point.

Second ring because he was sleeping, "Sammy?"

"Uh, hi," he says too loud for an early-morning dark parking lot. His voice bounces off the side of the building forty yards away. His voice is scattered, his thoughts are scattered, and suddenly so many of the things he wants have just shown up, dropped scattered at his feet.

Dean will know what to do.  
Dean will know what to do.

He's breathing too hard to have not been running. He wipes his other hand off on his knee. "Hey," Dean says in that suspicious tell-me-before-I-hear-about-it-on-the-news way. Just awoken but alert and ready to grab his keys.

"Can I. Is Cas there?"

"Yeah," and?

"Can he not be? For just five minutes?" The first time this happened, he was still shutting Dean out, still angry at him for telling the Becky story like it was a joke. But this time.

"Yeah," Dean's voice drops to soft and understanding because holy shit. His own is maybe a spinning top about to tilt and slip off the table. He hears Dean retreat to the kitchen because being in that kitchen has made him a way better man, lately. A more honest brother and better to Cas and a steady, functional center-figure to a bunch of kids who wish they'd already grown beyond needing family. "'Kay," he finally prompts. "So, what's going o-"

"Chuck. He. Chuck, he." He's basically gasping by this point. "Chuck gave me a ring. Chuck _proposed to me I said yes_ ," rushes out of him.

Dean's first piece, after a breath is, "Did you wanna say yes?"

"Yeah. God. God, yeah," he almost laughs and the first tear maybe hasn't broken at the corner of his eye but he scrubs at it anyway.

"Alright. Okay. So?" Dean says, searching. "You okay? I mean. If you're not ready-"

"I love him," Sam finally sobs, hand to his head and curling toward his knees and losing all grip of what the fuck he's even out here for. "I don't think I'm doing this right."

"Sam," Dean says soft but admonishing. "Sammy."

"Dean. Am I gonna get him killed?"

In all honesty, he has to cry for a while. And Dean just has to let him.

He can't say.  
He can't say that, after all these years, that he didn't kill Jess. He didn't kill mom. He didn't kill dad. He didn't kill Dean. He didn't kill Sara, Madison, didn't have a part in the deaths of so many others.

There's a trail of pain and death behind him. He guilted dad. Mom came to his room when he cried in the night. Dean threw himself into a deal for him. He didn't lift a finger to save Jess. God. Jess. He didn't try. He didn't even try. He knew a billion times better and because of the life he _wanted_ with her, he didn't even _try_.

Chuck understands that Sam knows better, now. Chuck's seen everything.

He's going to leave Chuck hurt. Gonna break him somehow.

He cries until he coughs and slaps a hand over his mouth to shut the fuck up at 4:30 in the morning.

"You gonna let me tell you what you called me to hear?" Dean asks at last.

Sam can't find any words at all so, yeah, he's hoping Dean has some.

"Look: Sam, I'll say one thing, alright? I'm kinda. He. Chuck is kinda smart for how hard his brain's been used as a fucking punching bag. I think. That this time. He did the smart thing before you got around to it. Maybe? And all this. These anxieties or whatever. This guy isn't even supposed to be alive. There's like a real possibility he would've lost his liver by now if you didn't step in and. Sam? Sammy. You don't get anyone killed. The world gets people killed. Life and heaven and hell and-- life gets people killed. It has never, not once, been your hands around a neck refusing to let the air back in."

He listens to his brother breathe and lets himself cry over his hand silently.

"You wanna get married to that short-shit, huh?"

Sam's laugh is wet and barking. And he breathes. And swallows and says. "I really fucking do. Is that okay?"

"Yeah. Yeah, I guess," he sounds like reluctant but he sighs like _goddamnit, kid, it's four in the fucking morning and I have never not loved you_. "Go back to sleep, Sam. You're not gonna get Chuck killed," he promises like _if Dad's not home in two days I swear we'll call Jim_ and Dad always came home, even if Dean had to drag him in. "He won't die. You're not gonna get him killed. We can build that house. And you can get married. Grow your stupid hair out longer."

Sam sniffs.

"Sam? Come on, man. You said you'd marry him and you left him in a motel bed somewhere. You got a job to do now. Go back to bed with him," he orders.

Sam sniffs against a completely clogged nose again. "'Kay."

"Alright."

«»

"Is it weird that I feel kinda better after all this, like. Emasculating waterworks?" he wonders aloud while tugging on his shoes.

Chuck's still brushing his teeth but his look says, _dude_. "Yoo don fink is emascalatink." He spits. "Emasculation isn't a thing. Unless you're Dean like six years ago letting an angel give you a fluttery stomach."

Sam had his hands around Chuck's body this morning feeling everything about him flutter as they admitted that maybe they're both absolutely at sea here and the best thing to do is build their own boat.

He's not emasculated, no, just not used to his face feeling so tight or his head so tired this early in the day.

Not used to the relief of this, either.

Of letting himself believe in this. In Good Stuff Staying Good.

Chuck dumps himself onto the end of the mattress next to Sam. He seems to be collecting his left hand this morning so Sam will stop inspecting the look of the ring on himself. So maybe he'll get used to it. "Anyway," he points out, "look at who you're asking."

Okay, yeah, but Chuck can't even help when he cries, it just comes out of him. Only, since he proposed, Sam's been the broken-dam of emotion for once. He could keep going, too. If he doesn't break out of their tender little shell a bit, he might. "We could play nice and drop in at the station. Ask Jody if she wants to have lunch. Be social," Sam suggests.

Chuck only nods, certain, definitive. Like he can prepare himself for that if it's what Sam wants. He is along for that ride.

Woah.

Sam pushes out a big, calming breath.

Chuck's thumb does its erratic circuit over the back of his hand.

"I want you with me for the rest of my life," Sam says. "Just. If that was in any way unclear."

"Hmm," Chuck nods. "You should keep saying that whenever it occurs to you."

He's not sure that Chuck understands he's gonna stop holding back.

Or that he was holding back in the first place.

He could forget about the plot of burned land and their family in town and kneel between Chuck's legs and keep his cock in his mouth until he's hard again and not leave this damn place until Chuck's sick of his swaying view of both the ceiling _and_ the bedspread.

He could breathe harsh around him for hours. Fuck him slow for days. He kind of wants Chuck to sit on his face for a while but he's reluctant enough about doing that when they're both showered and clean, he doesn't want him to know he's a complete fucking animal in heat for him.

Yet.

The caveman shit is honestly bad enough as it already stands. He's going to have to ask for permission, in tiny little steps, to let loose the rest of it.

Chuck seems to be under the impression that he's smart and evolved and whatever. Or. Well. Then again? Chuck already knows _everything_. He probably already understands.

He kind of wants to be soft and _engaged_ and in love like a goddamn romance for him. He wants Chuck to know this is beautiful and he feels every inch of fucking awed and hopeful.

It's just. You know. Currently at odds with the idea that his sweet, tight fucking ass will never-ever be touched by anyone but Sam again and no one else will know how much Chuck cares and cries and accepts and kisses and, goddamnit, _tastes_. Moans. Quivers on his cock. Loses his breath when he talks too fast about loving him. No one else will know his grasping fingers in his sleep. No one else will know what it is to be seen _through_ and known down to the bones. No one else will know the weight of him across their lap and the perfect fit in his arms.

The way Chuck thinks things out and connects puzzle pieces is a process that now goes on between just the two of them. The words Chuck speaks will lower and lower in volume as they grow closer (as they have been), like they're all secrets to share with Sam, alone, and Sam will get to keep the majority for himself and let the world in on secrets only if they two allow it. He can keep this. Keep Chuck safe and have someone tell him it's alright: He's loved. He's cherished. He's valued.

And build on top of his past with him.

He's maybe a little breathless with it when he asks, "You know what this means to me, right?"

Chuck waits for him to lift his eyes to meet his. "Key is to apartment as engagement ring is to Chuck. I did great on the SAT analogies portion."

Sam grips his hand maybe-too-tight.  
He knows what it means.

«»

"Jody's a cop," Chuck had said. "She noticed."

She did. But she must not have wanted to mention seeing Sam fidgeting with his ring until after she called Dean.

They're driving the last leg back down to the bunker, two days after, when she texts. **Congrats you little stinker.** Chuck reads it off his phone for him, then comments, "Hopefully she didn't say anything to anyone else." He shakes his little packet of chocolate pieces and passes Sam the bigger hunks.

Sam's not gonna be hurt by that. He has to convince himself Chuck Knows Better.

"It's a... secret?" he shrugs.

"Mm," Chuck chews. "Didn't you want to do a formal announcement thing? I figured you'd been waiting to ask me if I was okay with being the center of attention for just five minutes."

God. Dammnit. His stomach goes wobbly. "Would you seriously be okay with that??" he blinks wide at the road.

"It'll make you happy. Dean knows. He's probably still processing. Probably gonna let you do it. Cas and Claire and Charlie will think you're fucking adorable. I think it's adorable and I'm not even, like, mentally prepared to do it yet."

He's going to sleep so close to Chuck for the rest of his life he just... absorbs his insecurities or something.

"Is he gonna have his big-brother speech with me? About how if I break your heart he breaks my spine? I have no idea how I'd manage that but it seems like something he's been prepared to do his whole life."

Sam can't see that happening. Not with the way Dean sounded when Sam called and told him. They've had a couple more phone conversations since yesterday and each time it seemed like Dean was just checking in. In reality, he was likely monitoring Sam's level of calm. Dean's taking it easy on them. "You know, it makes a big difference that this doesn't involve... like. Lying and pretending ghosts don't exist and having to choose parts of life to live normally. It's the going-muggle part that tends to ruin things. Dean doesn't want me to have to hide him. Disappear from his life. That would be the problem. I think. At least. I mean, he was fine when I told him on the phone. I think he'll be fine," he shrugs.

Chuck eats his candy. "Good. I don't want you to lose him. If I'm honest, I don't want to, either. He'll be able to protect you better than me most the time. And. I kinda just got him back, too," he shrugs to admit it.

"I know," Sam smiles a little. "You love my family as much as I do. I wasn't really prepared for that. Guess I should've been." He needs to watch the road more than he's watching Chuck.

Chuck's eyes crinkle when he smiles sly like that, satisfied and knowing and dark and "Eyes front. You don't have as much experience distracted-driving as he does."

Sam shakes his head but keeps smiling, eyes on the stretch ahead of them.

Chuck, though? He doesn't have to watch the road. Sam feels his stare like the weight of the motel comforter around their shoulders this morning. All their freak-outs wrapped up in the last couple days. Worked out in sex. Quiet conversations. Hands finding each other across the car seat. Tense murmuring in the corners of rooms, looking at apartments in Nebraska. In going back to the bunker, it feels like they're crossing a different state line - a national border. Leaving that is-this-too-good-to-be-true? stress and nervous energy. Like how he left a corner of his ear in Canada. Coming back home with something more valuable than what he left.

Chuck's stare is about the same weight as this huge fucking band of silver on his left hand.

Gravity times two.  
His orbit stabilizing.

«»

At one of their rest stops, Sam calls to let Charlie know that they're complying with Castiel's mandate: he and Chuck will be moving out. They have a plan, they'll just need a little help in the execution.

She's pleased. And ready to take notes right then and there, but Sam says he thinks a family meeting would be more in order. She agrees to call 'Avengers Assemble' if they'll text a 30-minute warning.

Chuck can't be in charge of that. He won't send the text. He doesn't need his palms to sweat that much. So Sam doesn't even ask him. He has to do it at a stoplight.

But he does ask this: taking Chuck's hand across the seats, he goes quieter - unlike his old self. More like that post-Canada voice that slips out of him, bringing Chuck closer and making him share his life. "I just wanna make sure - I mean, you know this is kind of a big deal for me. I wasn't gonna let it be. But. It is. So. Are you totally sure?" He squeezes Chuck's hand.

"I am sure about this. Yes," he nods. "Yes. I am sure I want to marry a complete sap. I am fully prepared. I love you. I kinda love that you love me so much you wanna make a fucking engagement announcement to your family. Yes," he repeats.

Sam smiles. "I'm gonna take off my ring but just to show Dean the sigils, okay? I'll put it right back on."

"Sam, I know you'll have to take it off sometimes. It's not a big deal."

He finally rolls the car to a stop outside the garage. Tugs Chuck's hand over further to place a kiss on his knuckles and meet his eyes. He's stopped rolling the ring against the steering wheel. Stopped fidgeting with it. He's trusting the weight of it. He'll want to keep it clean; he'd keep it pristine if he could. But it's going to travel to every far-flung rural town he ends up in with him. It's gonna slide over Chuck's skin with him. It's gonna end up in motor oil and blood and food and debris with him.

He knows. He knows he'll have to take it off. It's not ever going to be what he chooses.

"Yeah," he admits, mouth still against Chuck's hand.  
"Yeah, but I don't want to."

«»

They enter the bunker from below without encountering anyone else. Sam's bed-their bed-the bed that will be their-former-bed looks cool and comfortable after all that driving and he wants to settle Chuck on it for a minute and kiss him. Just, like, _in thanks_.

So their bags get shuffled to the side and he mostly-closes the door and presses Chuck back to sit. Moves in between his knees and arches down to kiss him. Chocolate. Second coffee of the day. Chuck. God. Just Chuck's taste.

His hands come up to crunch into the shoulders of Sam's jacket and he's been rubbing his thumb over and over his knee so he's not ready for the full-family weirdo introduction thing Sam wants to do. Chuck's willing to do this despite the fact that he's never gonna be _ready_ for it while Sam's heart is swelling to fucking burst. All the careful stitching Chuck has done. The sutures all permanent. His insides healed and solid. Chuck always pressing against them to prove their integrity. To show him they're alright.

Together they're alright.

And if he sticks to his plan, builds it so it's not so tentative, leans on their family so they can reach their end results, he can set Chuck up to write in the sunrise golden light, the east-facing windows of some imagined kitchen. And cocoon him into their wide bed any time he likes. Have unobstructed access to Chuck any time he needs.

He can get told he's not just parts. He can listen to Chuck's words level out the jagged mountains of his life like he were some mighty worldbuilder.

He breathes deep into Chuck's mouth and ends the kiss to just hold him tight. "I'm gonna go do this. I want you to hold on to me and it'll be over and it'll be planning and after three minutes, nobody's gonna be staring at you anymore. I just. Kinda need them to stare for a little bit because I have a totally inexcusable urge to show you off. And maybe they don't get that but they've never had you on their lap."

A laugh stutters out of Chuck. His fists let go and his hands slide down Sam's arms and fall. Only to be taken up again a moment later.

The war room is empty. The library, too. They hold hands on into the kitchen. And Sam doesn't let him go like he usually does in the house.

Claire and Charlie and Cas are at the table and Dean is rinsing off a set of measuring spoons at the sink.

They come in kind of mid-conversation but Cas sits straighter and just _swings_ his head around like his internal EMF just went off.

Real fucking subtle. He might have picked it out of Dean's brain, but Chuck's right: Dean wouldn't have told. Not even Cas. Not 'til Sam was ready.

"Heeeeey!" Charlie throws her arms wide like inviting them to the party.

Dean shuts off the sink and turns.  
Looking almost nervous.

"Um?" Charlie amends.

Claire perks, twigging to the sudden arrival of some family drama.

Deep breath, he shrugs, smiles with all the certainty he has. "Hey."

Cas catches sight of Sam's left hand. Swings his wide eyes to Chuck.

Chuck doesn't notice. Chuck only holds Dean's stare. It's probably wise to meet him steadily. In all honesty, Chuck has nothing more to fear from Dean. Dean has evened out in his new role. Even if he hadn't, Sam's still bigger than his big brother and there would be actual fucking consequences to so much as intimidating Chuck based on size and height.

And if that isn't clear.

Sam raises the hand to show it. "So hi. Chuck and I are getting married."

Charlie slaps a hand over her mouth, a sound like it actually might hurt and a cut-off yelp.

Claire busts out a laugh.

Cas turns to Dean.

And immediately what little humor bubbled into the room goes flat.

And every last eye swings to Dean.

His brother wipes his hands dry on a dishtowel and tosses it to the counter.

Takes a breath and approaches.

Sam tugs Chuck closer to let go of his hand. Chuck leans in to him and just watches.

Sam takes the ring off. Offers it up.

"He actually got that for you?" Dean wonders. Looks down to accept it. Weighs it in his palm. Seems... slightly impressed.

Cas rises and comes to his side. It only takes a glance at the sigils - and another at Chuck - for him to offer, "I can explain the significance of that configuration. But Sam ought to keep that on as often as possible for it to hold properly."

Sam accepts the ring back with a smile to know he's supposed to be keeping it on anyway. Thanks-Cas-not-a-problem nod.

But then him and Chuck and Dean are all standing stiff.

Dean more than anyone else and Charlie and Claire are still seated and silent behind Cas.

Dean doesn't look at Chuck. Dean doesn't look at anybody.

Unfolds his crossed arms and drags Sam in. Says not-quiet-enough:

"I'm. I'm happy for you."

After the ladies have risen and even Cas has hugged him, he finds Chuck leaning back on the door frame, Charlie giving him a half-smile and a light knock on the shoulder with her fist. "So you're the one who did it? Pics or it didn't happen."

Sam snorts. "Uh. It did."

Chuck shrugs. "I accidentally did it in a Starbucks? So it's possible there's something out there. I wasn't really paying attention."

"Ugh!" she throws her hands up and rounds the table again. Passes a tablet to Claire. "You run my code on Vine and Instagram, I'll run it on YouTube and Twitter. I'll give you the search terms."

Aw, god.

Chuck is half- _out_ of the kitchen and that isn't a good sign of calm.

Dean clears his throat like back-to-business. "I think you owe me a gun, you fucking jokers," and makes Cas come with back to his herbs and ziplocs on the counter.

So chatter resumes a little and he can press Chuck back around, out into the hall and against the wall far enough that-

Has his body under his hands and his tongue in his mouth before he can even shake it off because.

Because _fuck_. Because his family loves him and they're willing to watch these two boneheads take vows and wear dumb (stunning) rings and hang off of each other a whole fucking lot.

The wall is cement - not that any wall has any give - and he can't press Chuck against it harder because, when he's allowed to leave bruises, he wants them to come from his mouth, not on accident.

Chuck is rattling just a little. His kisses are either tiny or drowning under the weight of Sam's.

He lets up.

Chuck's arms rush up around his neck. Solid so if he feels like lifting (he does) Sam can bring him out of reach of the floor and hold all the way around him.

"Happy for you."

And that's either him reminding Sam of what Dean said (and meant) or him being happy that Sam was allowed to have his dumbass mom-I'm-getting-married moment.

He needs it to be both maybe. Chuck's words are always useful that way.

"We're still having a family meeting in here, lovebirds, don't go eloping," Charlie hollers.

Sam breathes into Chuck's shoulder and would really just prefer not to let him go.

"I can go get the Colt from the room. Like. A minute? You know?"

He rubs Chuck's back and nods. Some time to shake everyone's eyes off and not feel watched. Chuck needs that to feel okay again. "Yeah. Take a minute hermit crab," he whispers.

So Chuck kisses him this time and it's still a couple minutes until they separate.

«»

Claire finds it by the time Sam quietly lopes back in and claims a seat at the table hoping for no comments.

But they're making noise over a Vine that's drawing Cas and Dean with their breadcrummy fingers over to watch.

Six seconds entitled, "OMG this guy just proposed in the Starbucks I'm tripping" with sixteen or so of those crying-laughing emojis.

Six seconds post-proposal.

Six seconds of whistles and applause rising as Sam snatches Chuck up and deepens their kiss by hauling him closer.

His eyes are closed.

You can't really see Chuck's face but over and over again there's Sam with his eyes closed.

Looking like.  
Sheer relief.

So, yeah, maybe that's what it feels like. 

He moves seats. So Chuck can sit by the wall, to Sam's right, when he gets back. Like normal. Like they do.

Chuck takes long enough upstairs that Sam has to start wondering if he's caught there in a panic attack. He has to know, by now, how long he can be gone before Sam will check on him. He said a minute and he meant a few and if it's over ten he's going to peek into the room to make sure it looks like he's breathing enough.

Dean's leaning over the kitchen table when the Colt is offered around his arm.

And Chuck comes Sam's way to sit next to him.

He can't help but ignore the damn internet, ignore the damn gun, ignore the damn questions and skid his hand around Chuck's waist, two fingers sweeping up under his jacket and shirt.

Chuck seems to take a deep breath and deliberately looks under the table for Sam's thigh. He puts his hand there. Then looks up.

 _I'm okay_ , his mouth says without sound.

Sam wants to know. Wants to hear what he found in their empty room. Because, clearly, he had to pick up some pieces and, clearly, he found Sam was the glue. He keeps his hand there. Not skidding at the inseam of his jeans, not running nails up to his knee. Just his warm hand splayed right there on Sam's thigh, steady and solid.

Claire is scooting over and plopping the tablet down pleased-as-punch and hitting play on the Vine and Chuck kind of startles and laughs in disbelief.

Discussion stays fractured for a bit. Dean, Cas, and Charlie talking about ammo for the Colt, then Dean returns to cooking while Sam, Cas, and Charlie talk about plans for Bobby's house.

Chuck talks to Claire but his fingers flex into Sam's thigh. He can't decide if something's wrong or right. Has to trust that he'll be told.

"This..." Charlie is distracted, using her thumb and pointer to turn and twist an image of blueprints on her tablet, "is unacceptable," she determines, nods. "You can't keep to the original blueprints of the house; it's way too small. And I don't see..." scrolling through records, now, "permits for updates and additions? Like, what are the specs on the panic room?"

Dean laughs. "You think Bobby woulda done that on the books? Nah."

"Yeah, I doubt you'll find out all the things he built on that property," Sam agrees and accepts two mugs from Cas, passes one with the sugar to Chuck. His hand disappears to tend to it but, once he's stirring, Sam draws it back down to press it against his thigh and not let go.

"Well. Regardless. We need to- well. I'll talk to a few guys I know. Get a better plan. You need more rooms than this. More space for books. That's not an adequate family kitchen and there aren't really guest rooms."

Chuck's hand flexes and the feel like a hiccup shoots through him where he's sitting close up against Sam's shoulder.

"Guys. I don't think. I mean, this isn't really gonna be as big as the bunker. This is our house. Not a secondary-"

"It's their house first," Dean declares, his back still turned at the far counter.

And Charlie pouts a little but shrugs. "We'll work it out. What you want it to be like and such. You keeping the scrap business open?"

"I. Um. Don't want to. Not really of use to me," glances at his brother who feels his eyes on him.

"I got no use for what's left on that yard," Dean looks over his shoulder. "You're not enough of a gearhead to need all those spare parts around. I've already salvaged enough to keep Baby running the next few years," shrugs and returns to mixing something with his fingers.

Cas looks over his shoulder to see what he's doing. "Could be useful for defensive measures. A sort of maze to slow an attack," he offers.

"Rust, oil, glass. I don't need it," Sam shrugs again.

"Zoning wasn't an issue," Charlie reports. "The property's so far out they wouldn't have fined him for having a business. But. Looks like the surrounding area iiiissss... residential. And wildlife," still scrolling. "Lotta land without all those cars stacked on it," she comments.

Dean washes his hands and chimes in. "A workshop. It's not a good area for a barn, so we get permits to build a workshop there and claim you build furniture. Or that Chuck uses it as a studio to paint or some shit." He dries his hands on a washcloth and tosses it aside, comes to join them at the table. "Then we put a huge structure out there opposite the house. And. Shit." He shrugs. "You guys can do anything with it. Another library. Storage. Armory. A cage. Another panic room."

"Backup servers," Charlie proposes.

"Training facility," Cas tosses out. "Shooting range?"

"Can always use the back woods for that," Dean shakes his head. "Emergency supplies."

"Moonshine still and an air hockey table," Claire says.

"I vote yes!" Chuck points to her.

Sam pushes his hand to the table. _Looks_ at him.

His smile is that little shit-eating-haha-is-this-kid-me-or-what?? Grin.

Until Sam stares long enough, unamused, and that little edge ticks at the corner of his mouth and the angle of his eyes and maybe this family meeting needs to be over. He can taste coffee, but not Chuck behind it and he never feels like he can even so much as taste his lips real quick when they're in front of everybody else.

He's fed up with it. Love too many people at once and you have to build an entire house _plus a workshop_ just to get your fiancé alone and suck on his tongue.

Maybe his own glare dissolves and goes gooey because Chuck goes soft and the hand on his thigh spans wide.

Charlie's mumbling about waiting 'til campaign season swings into full gear to finance it all out from under a Texan SuperPAC.

He lets go. Sweeps his hand back up under Chuck's shirt. Feels his insides jump under his skin when his lungs stutter.

This is. Fuck. This is-

Chuck tugs him down to speak in his ear. "This is gonna last all past dinner."

He nods.

"Love you," he says so quiet. "Love you. I love you."

He lets go of Sam's jacket and sits back against the wall, nodding.

It makes him feel all knotted up. Wanting a hundred things - soft things, hard things - all of them separately and at once. 99 of them concerning Chuck and 98 of them inappropriate for this table over the next five hours.

As a family, they have plans to make. They have to finally move on to phase two with all the data they salvaged from Dad and Bobby. They have to plan how the kids are gonna learn to hunt. They have to decide how often Dean will be able to come up and help work on the house. They have to give a purpose to each room and tentatively plan out lives - entire lives - for the next two years.

There will be hunting between it all. And probably world-ending crises.

But, no.

They're not allowed anymore.  
And he doesn't want to, anymore.

He wants to accept the new rules and spend six out of every seven days being married and not much else.

It'll never work out like that.

But his marriage should take as much work as the rest of his life. If he's gonna do it right.

And there's the ritual.  
The wedding.

He grabs for Chuck again, to pull him forward. Asks quiet: "What does Dean know about the super-secret project?"

Chuck's eyes skip to Cas.

He has no qualms about shouting out mental questions to him.

Cas nods. Puts up a finger like, _one minute_.

And fuck that. How is Chuck okay with someone picking up on his brainwaves like that? He wants to pull him into his lap and cover his ears.

He wants to pull him into his lap.

He tugs again.

"Sam," he whispers, eyes going soft.

Chipping away at his sense of privacy and instinct to do nothing noticeable ever.

Jesus fuck. Just because Dean's gotta be manly, nobody can make out at the kitchen table.

He puts a little pleading into his eyes.

If he says it? If he says, 'Please?' Chuck _will_ kiss him. It's like a rule by now.

He may not need to. It looks like Chuck's gonna concede at least something.

He glances to the others, but they're back on the subject of weapons, now -- Claire's touching the barrel of the Colt and saying, "So you put this to the devil's head and blammo?"

Sam sways to catch his eyes again.

Chuck takes a deep breath and slides forward in his seat and only presses his mouth to Sam's ear again. "We're not playing chicken at the family meeting. Please don't."

Sam slumps but Chuck kisses his shoulder as he gets back in his seat and pulls up his coffee mug with both hands.

"Sam," Cas finally draws his attention. "How much of the ritual did Chuck explain to you? I think one explanation might do for both you and Dean."

Alright. So, see, if Dean knows nothing about this and he's about to freak out about it, Chuck definitely needs to sit closer.

Sam clears his throat. "He went over the basics. He said there's more reading for me to do. He said. We, um. We can use it for the ceremony?"

"Ceremony?" Claire echoes.

Charlie settles in, too. Chuck said she was brought in on it but, except for a phrase or two, her gadgets weren't able to pick much of the text apart.

Dean has narrowed his eyes at Cas.

"That would be possible. Appropriate, too, in my opinion," Cas agrees. "But it will depend on you to determine when. We do have some more to work out. I think Chuck has reached the limits of his borrowed knowledge. As have I," he shrugs.

Dean snorts. "Are you admitting there's something you don't know?" he grins.

"I do that," Cas swings his gaze around. "Frequently."

Dean's still smirking.

"So, wait. You guys wanna do the binding-sorta-protection-thingy for your actual wedding?" Charlie looks past him to Chuck.

Chuck polishes off his coffee and puts his mug on the table. Runs his fingers over, round and round the mouth of it. Seems to decide to take the floor.

"So, um. Yeah. That's. We would prefer to use it that way. Um. Okay, so," he looks down the table to Dean. "I found something in Bobby- er. His books. And. His brain. He didn't really have a chance to work on it back when it mattered. He found the book after. Um. After Zach's whole power trip thing."

Chuck's posture changes in a way that sets off an alarm. Sam doesn't know why but if it has to do with Zachariah, he'd like to see Dean knife him all over again. Damn the family meeting, he turns in his seat to face him fully and puts his hand on Chuck's back.

He's tense and it does not let up.

He stares in his empty mug as he continues. "Basically, it's a way to tie two people together so entry into them - their bodies, souls, or minds - for any of that you'd need the other person to actually, consciously give permission. It's," he weighs his words and looks back down at Dean, "not exactly a mind-meld. It's reciprocal protection. You have to set it up through the ritual."

"How bloody is this ritual?" is Dean's first yeah-right-okay challenge.

"Not at all," Cas says. "It's not easy for those participating. It's an intense mental challenge. But not a drop of blood has to be spilled."

Dean's still dubious, to say the least.

Something occurs to Sam.

"Tell him why you didn't know about it, Cas," he prompts.

Cas shrugs, then straightens from his lean against the table.

"It was taken from me. From all of us. A surviving clanswoman who had been married out of her homeland was the one who wrote the ritual as it's been passed down. She recounted all of it. The way she describes the devastation and aftermath - she didn't _see_ it, she wouldn't have survived - is similar to other sweep jobs angels have been ordered to implement. I understood what I was reading as Chuck and I worked on it. It must have been something that was programmed out of us."

"By Naomi?" Dean looks disturbed.

Cas shrugs. "It's likely."

"They destroyed a star so the ritual could never take place again," Sam adds because that's still fucking amazing.

"A star??" Claire marvels.

Cas wavers. "From the location and the power required, I assume it was, rather than a planet."

"Damn," Charlie sits back.

"So how can you do it again if there's no star?" Claire narrows her eyes.

Cas gestures to him. "Sam and I will calculate something that should work just as well and figure out modern replacements for the ancient ceremonial objects."

"But if you guys gotta use other stars, that might mean you have to do the ritual from fucking Zimbabwe or something, right?" Charlie wonders.

Cas only shrugs.

"We'll see," Sam says. "I haven't even looked at any of it. We can't plan around this yet, guys."

Chuck slumps further and it draws the notice of the whole table.

"Okay," Charlie waves over their whole gathering and it regains their attention. "We have new information, but not enough to plan on right now. We'll reconvene the family planning sesh after everybody's reviewed their new stuff. Mostly that means Sam has a lot of work to do, so Dean and Claire, you're mine tomorrow. We have to move forward on phase two. Cas obviously has to help Sam."

"Uh. Are we adjourned?" Cas asks. "The _Bait Car_ marathon is about to begin."

"Un-fucking-believable," Dean throws his hands up in disgust and Claire busts out laughing. "I leave you alone for an hour and you find all the crap tv in existence."

Sam doesn't even wait for her final word before he's coaxing Chuck up and out of the room. They've got a few hours before Dean cooks dinner. Either Charlie saw what Sam saw or they really are supposed to get on with their next assignments, but-

He doesn't even wait until they're in their room.

In the hall, he reaches down and scoops Chuck in and his arms go right around Sam's shoulders.

He goes flat-out hazy when Chuck so clearly wants to be held.

He does so until they hear someone at the far end of the hall. Sam walks them the ten feet to the bedroom and shuts them in. "Come here," he says this time, and rubs Chuck's back as they just stand there tangled.

"I'm so sorry," Chuck says into his neck.

"No, don't do that. I don't see anything you have to be sorry for."

"I got your hopes up. This might not even work. Sam, this probably won't _work_. Math isn't the answer to everything. Or maybe there will be no place the math works from. I can't believe I used our fucking proposal to just, like, lure you in. _This might not work_."

Sam gets staticy with annoyance. He feels it itch under his skin. "You used our proposal to tell me you're ready to go to a serious extreme to protect me. Don't knock my fucking proposal," he pretty well gripes.

A little bit of tension falls out of Chuck when he deflates and he's not so stick-stiff when Sam pulls him in closer.

"Listen to me here, sweetheart," he kisses the side of Chuck's head and kicks forward to the bed to put him down there. Sinks to sit between his knees and rub them with his thumbs like Chuck does when he's trying to get past nerves. Chuck's paying attention to nothing but him. Drifts in close so their faces almost brush. "You did a lot of brainwork to get to this point. To find this out. Cas didn't even know about it. You had to unearth it all alone and I can tell you both put in a lot of work already, but you did all you could and you've hit your limit and I want." He takes a deep breath and tries not to let anger seep into a single word. "You sit in too many memories too often. And I want you to stop. I want your brain to rest. You're not supposed to put yourself in the path of that so it can pull you under and take you away from me for hours and days at a time."

"It's not _days_ ," he whispers.

"One day might as well be days-and-days, you said it, yourself: I live every minute of my days. I don't have the option of zoning out nine-to-five and you're supposed to keep me company, so neither do you," he tries to smile a little, purely to get Chuck to return it. The corner of his mouth ticks up and, alrightalright, Sam knows how to be _cute_ so he _cutes_ a little more with his _face_ and whatever until Chuck rests his head against his hair. He pets at Chuck's face on both sides, temples down to his beard. "It's time for me to start doing husband-things," he can barely say it, strangled and stupid with it, a burn up his throat every time.

 _Husband_ -things.  
Son of a bitch. He's gotta work on making himself into a husband for this poor guy. He needs one so fucking bad. Chuck's less lonely. Healthier. But what else? What else? There's a lot of work to do and Chuck's been hiding it all away, doing it on his own. Bindings and rings and gathering the nerves to say the words and looking at Sam's black shadow and shrugging, stepping in anyway, because for some _unknown reason_ he feels warm there.

"That means," he swallows and stops. Lifts his head to kiss at Chuck's, "that means it's my turn to do the lifting. You've done all of it on this one. You recruited Cas and Charlie and- I'm so proud of you. Chuck, I'm so proud of you," he insists when he starts shrinking into his shoulders again. "They're your friends and your family and they damn well should have helped. You damn well should have asked. Look! You did all of that right. You're doing all of this family stuff right! Now it's my job to iron out the details. I'll make you proud," he decides out loud. "I'll make this work for us. _I can't wait to marry you_ ," tumbles out of him and it must not sound as pathetic and desperate and sad as it was crowding his throat because Chuck shakes loose to grab him and kiss him and push-push at each of his shoulders to get him to toss the jacket off.

Oh baby-baby-babe, he thinks. Doesn't let it happen too often because _Sam, that's the damn car, not cool_ , but Chuck is his sweetie-sweetheart-baby-everything, "Sweetheart," he kisses into his mouth, "sweetheart."

Chuck actually _helps him_ take his shirts off which doesn't mean he wants to be pinned down and mouthed at, it means he wants Sam to touch him until this is more believable. So his thoughts better cool down and he better get this right because this guy seriously fucking _wants him_ so the least he can do is pay attention and handle his body right.

He can lay him any time. He's gonna do him in the middle of the bed missionary with Chuck's hands tangling his hair, later. He has a perfect vision of it and all he needs is Chuck to be trusting and easy and happy and liquid. He'll do it tonight and tomorrow and when they choose an apartment and-

Oh. God.

After he steals him a solid-gold, billion-dollar ring and proposes right the fuck back to him.

He'll get in his pants a thousand times but right now he needs to climb in his head.

He rolls over and drapes Chuck all down the front of himself and tightens his arms. "You're too sad. Tell me what to do."

"You're already gonna marry me, what the hell else am I supposed to be asking for, here?" he frees up his arms and shoves them under Sam's shirt, against his sides.

His insides are sizzling so he shouldn't ask the question he wants to ask. He wants to boil and he shouldn't. He should stroke Chuck's skin. Practice being a husband. He _clings_.

"I'm gonna build you a house. You should shop for a custom-sized bed and we'll decide how big the room should be _around it_."

"Wow. That's a good idea."

He closes his eyes. "Chuck. When I get up from this bed, I'm gonna get the secret-project-binding-book out of your stuff and I'm gonna start reading your notes. Then me n' Cas are gonna find a time and place. I promise. Can you believe I'll do this for you? Please?" he opens his eyes.

Chuck looks up to kiss him. "Yeah. You can. You can kick anything in the ass."

Sam hikes him up closer. "You want me to go looking right now? I'll start right fucking now."

"Not right fucking now. I think I had too much coffee, I'm sloshy."

Sam puts him on his side and runs his thumb down and down and down the hair on his chin.

He gives up. He has to ask.

"What did Zachariah do to you?" he whispers.

Chuck sighs heavy and wedges his arms around Sam's neck again. "He made me see. He took things away. He bullied the hell out of me. If I went too long without writing, he made the headaches worse."

Sam _burns_. Exhales fucking smoke. Dips his nose to press into Chuck's neck.

"He took things away. What did he take away?" Sam prompts.

"I don't know. I can't remember. He would make sure I knew that would happen again if I kept looking for shit where I wasn't supposed to. I just. I think he took things away from me and it's like when you step out of a room and can't remember what you needed to turn back for but that you're supposed to. And you just never end up remembering. It might have been just fucking with my head, but-"

"He made the headaches worse. I'm so fucking angry. I'm _so_ fucking angry. Give me. Tell me why I shouldn't just hold you here and make love to you for the rest of forever until you just forget all the awful shit people have done to you? Give me one good fucking reason why I can't do that." He tries to keep his fingers from denting in to Chuck's back.

"Sounds like the kind of thing we'd need our own little fortress for. Our own house. So you can Rapunzle your fucking hair down and we never come out of the tower. With our custom-made bed."

"Shit yes."

Chuck blinks at him for a while. Then he moves to get up. Grabs for Sam's hand to drag him off the bed.

Sam gets himself pushed to the wall next to the closet. Chuck stoops to start digging through their bags and comes up with a notebook. A huge photocopied book. Another book.

He slides down the wall and when Chuck has everything, he pulls him to sit between his legs and lean back and commandeers all the stuff because it's his now. He puts the books aside and opens the notebook to the first page.

"So, this is mostly me," Chuck points as if Sam wouldn't know his handwriting by now. "Some of the corrections are Cas. So the stuff in blue ink is the right stuff if he crossed it off. The rest of Cas's notes are between the pages," he reaches over Sam's leg to tap the cover of the photocopy.

"Will you go over it with me?" he says into the back of Chuck's ear.

"You can't read my chickenscratch?"

"I like hearing you read to me," and his eyes close because that is the absolute least of it. That is the tippy top of the heap of what he likes about this.

Mostly he likes that there are months of tiny-squished notes and cross-referenced post-it tabs in the dictionary and a fiancé between his thighs.

Chuck thinks for a minute, thumbing at the edge of the pages. "I got the ring sent to me in- I special-ordered it a little bit after CreepyCon. Got it sent here under Cas's name. He didn't know what was in the box but he told me it was good. I think he thought it was for the ritual. He thought I was starting to plan it out without telling you but really I had this ring in a box and all I could think was that this wouldn't ever work. Like, what the fuck was I even thinking about? And then." He shrugs. "And then you said, 'Let's build a house.' So if." He closes the notebook over Sam's thumb. "You can only do this-- you can only move on with this if you're ready to get stuck with me. And I mean stuck with me body, soul, and brain because that's what this ritual seems to be. Sam, I wouldn't do this if I could find a better way. The better ways are all closed. I don't want you to have to do this," he spreads his hand over top of it.

Sam reaches over his arm and opens the notebook back up so his hand falls away.

"You blew all your money on my ring, didn't you? All that money I sat there and watched you earn with your articles?"

Chuck doesn't answer. But the answer is yes.

Sam folds the notebook cover over and props it on his knee. "Hurry up and read. I gotta find a star to get married under before you come to your senses."

«»

The next day, it is spontaneously time for a hunt, and Claire found the case, so she's taking official lead. Charlie declared it so.

But everybody's gonna have Claire's back, so she won't have the chance to get lost or lose her nerve and this is a very, very early (too early, in Sam's opinion) test run for her.

They drive all day, make it to the motel by one in the morning. Dean and Cas room 103, Claire and Charlie room 104, Sam and Chuck room 105.

Claire is nowhere near believable as an authority figure yet, so Sam and Dean put on their suits and leave to go act like the locals are yokels and beneath their notice as _FBI Special Agents, thank you very much_. Not that they didn't start flashing badges in their teens trying to get answers, looking too young and ribbing each other over nonsense. But giving her Responsibility Over The Hunt has seemed to awaken Claire to her poor sense of shoe choice and also she's in the position to boss them around. So she did.

They're on their own, driving, and Dean fidgets behind the wheel for all of two minutes before he says, "So, uh. Binding."

Oh boy. "Yeah," he thumbs over his own knee and wonders why Chuck finds that comforting when he gets nervous.

"Cas has been explaining it to me. And, man. I just have to fucking wonder why the hell you're agreeing to this. Look: I'm all for you getting hitched. It's not like last time, I don't have a problem with it. You're clearly in your right mind about it. You guys-- you're together and happy and maybe I still don't really see what you see in the guy but. You're happy," Dean's jaw ticks and he looks nowhere but at the road.

"You can stop bringing up _last time_ any fucking day now," Sam interrupts his canned speech.

They're silent and it's the kind of silent that bites at Dean. But it's not mean enough. Sam wasn't mean enough. He tries again. Because this is important.

"Let me put it this way: If you keep bringing up the Becky thing, at some point Chuck's gonna be in the room when you do it and he's gonna say _that word_ that's going to shut you the fuck down forever so you might as well work it out of your system now and not get called out on it in front of the rest of our family."

"What word?" he scoffs.

"Rape. Every time you bring it up, he's gotta corner me and remind me that none of it was my fault and what she did to me was almost a goddamn mind-control rape scene and he gets so angry that I'm reminded with no subtlety at all that he knows exactly how this car works, just as well as you do, and exactly how to make it never work again, just as well as you do. I'd call that a creditable threat, Dean."

He _cringes_. Clears his throat. "Mm. Well. Can't say he wouldn't do everything in the world to protect you, either."

"Including initiating a dual-to-the-death with you over the Impala. Which is why he wanted to do the binding thing." Sam stretches his shoulders to roll and pop them. "The thing about it is." He sniffs and restarts. "Chuck asked if it was cool with me if he went looking for some kind of binding to negate the whole angelic vessel thing. He asked me if I was okay with him looking for something like that. He let me think about it. I said yes. I said he could try looking and that I didn't expect him to find anything because," Sam kind of gestures to the whole world.

"Yeah. Like. Doubt it. You didn't really think he'd find anything.”

"Yeah. So. I just. And we didn't talk about it? But it became this sort of not-so-secret, we-don't-talk-about it thing. It _wasn't_ really a secret. Even you knew him and Cas had a project. Everybody, like, low-key knew about it. He wanted to ask me if I was okay with _the prospect_ of finding it, but he didn't want to get my hopes up about some sort of miracle cure for being a vessel."

Dean breathes deep. "You didn't mention anything about it to me."

"He didn't want me _possibly_ getting my hopes up. He pointed out that you _would_ get your hopes up."

Dean looks away from the road to him for a second.

"You _would_ ," he repeats.

Dean looks back at the road. "Was he." Dean sways his head and seems to consider. "I'm not crazy about this binding thing. Or about you getting _mentally tied_ or whatever to somebody you've only known a year."

"Oh, but getting married to him, _that's_ alright. Because marriage isn't supposed to be permanent anymore," Sam scoffs.

"Okay. I know. But that's not what I mean. I mean," Dean shakes his hand out, "and, no, that's not what I mean! I-- you would. I know you didn't have, like, the _model_ of Mom and Dad or anything and I don't know what that would even mean to you, anyway, but that's not. Sam, that's not even something I would consider. This isn't gonna be a traditional marriage. We've met hunter families before. I mean, look at the Campbells. You were with them a while. Those guys with their wives? They were all like weird and serious and devoted and it's never one of those disconnected tv marriages. Not when saying goodbye in the morning means a werewolf could polish you off before lunch time. So that's not. what. I. was. implying. Okay?"

Sam shrugs when Dean glances long enough for him to see it.

"Okay, so I'm just saying. We don't know how mind-read-y this thing is gonna be, this binding thing, and I just think, of all people, _you_ would go into it with a lot more caution."

"They've been working on it for months and now I'm gonna be going over every word of it for as long as it takes. We're not going into this lightly, Dean."

"You've known him for a year! Just a year, Sammy. And. I just." He shrugs. " _Binding_."

Yeah. He knows. It sounds permanent. It probably is.

His kneejerk reaction is to get this part of the day over with and get back to their motel room and read more, read faster. Determine as soon as possible when the ceremony should be done.

But when he gets back to their room and he's harried about the whole thing, Chuck will notice.

He'll catch him at it and stop him and ask him what made him rush into it. He'll remind him that rushing into _any_ spell is a bad idea.

And he'll tell him to listen to what Dean said. Really listen. And ask himself why Dean's saying it in this way.

Usually, Dean is very anti-spellwork. That's a given, of course. Any supernatural means of binding people has to be bad. But marriage isn't supernatural and people do it all the time and it has arguably closer, more real-life consequences - if performed injudiciously - than a spell. You alienate the kids you had together, you blow a bunch of money on lawyers, you rip your families apart and make everyone take sides.

Spells gone bad result more in, you know. Explosions and death.  
Which are a lot more convenient given their immediacy.

So are Dean's objections justified? He knew there would be some protests.

Dean doesn't _get_ his connection with Chuck and that's because it's probably simpler than everyone gives it credit for.

First, Sam finds Chuck's appearance masculine and compact and soft and sexy. It's just what he fucking likes in a guy, that's all.

Second, Chuck responded to Sam's advances as a friend and then gradually worked with him towards more. It was a careful but natural and emotional progression. They're friends. Maybe best-friends. And he loves his best friend.

Then there's the fit. The pieces of himself that Sam thought were worn away or chopped off or always inadequate? Those rest within Chuck. Either for Chuck to unearth and prove to Sam that he's still got, or for Sam to find those qualities within Chuck that balance out his own.

Even Dean's become aware of that point. So much so that he shrugs and straightens in his seat. "Still not used to you weighing out your words, now."

Yeah. He's used to the Sam he grew up with. Going pedal-to-the-floor in the opposite direction just because someone hinted at which way he should point himself.

Sam will never say that was an unreasonable reaction. He grew up with unseen forces directing his life. The only thing he had to himself was the ability to reject the things people planned out for him and book it in the opposite direction. He's tried to be better about that. But Chuck has given him more of the _tools_ he didn't know he needed to grow up and out of the habit. He may still make unexpected moves, but he better understands his own reasons for doing so. He takes the time to decide if he's being handled or if his instincts are truly his own.

"I guess I need to read the book and look at their translations to tell you if you're right, Dean. So I'm not, like, discounting your objection here. I just can't dismiss all the work Chuck put in. Or the fact that he found this in the first place. I mean, he said Bobby tried to consider it before he knew he just wasn't up to the task of puzzling the whole book out. If Bobby thought it would have been good enough for us, you gotta admit it's worth looking in to, right?"

"Yeah. I mean, alright. But, look: Sam, I'm saying a little more like. I know it's not a mind-meld? But come on. It's close. It could be that he ends up being able to just waltz into your mind any time. And if there's anybody I know who wouldn't like that? You're the president of the Get The Fuck Out of My Head club. I mean, you've been used-- I mean. I just mean that between the angels and whatever else. Are you. Just. Are you _sure_ this is the guy who you wouldn't mind tripping over that barrier and maybe seeing stuff you don't want him to know?"

Sam actually has to laugh. "Dean, I'm not sure what he doesn't know. I mean. Aaah," he keeps laughing. "Man. You don't wanna hear this. I mean, I didn't want to hear it. But. Chuck saw. He saw, like. Everything. When he was a prophet, they crammed it _all_ in there and he still comes up with gross memories about both of us that he just doesn't wanna know. So. I mean, I see where you're coming from. And thanks. But like," he gives him an _eye_.

"Ugh," Dean kinda looks grossed-out-upset because. Yeah. He's sure it's for a reason  
he doesn't wanna know-  
that Chuck _already_ knows-  
that _none of them want to hear out loud_.

Sam laughs again. "Um. For what it's worth? He said if it's so gross that if you don't like thinking about it but you feel like you kind of have to _apologize_ for him seeing it? Then he actually would prefer if you just pretend like it never, ever happened. Because that's what he does."

Dean blows out a breath. "Noted. Geeze."

"But, so, I mean. If there's anybody I'd worry about- I mean. He's offered, you know? That was the way he said it when he first told me. That if I didn't wanna be bound to him, he'd understand. If I preferred to be bound to you? He'd understand. But. To be honest, if it ends up opening the pipeline between our brains, I'd kinda be more worried about you knowing some of this stuff," he taps his head, "than him."

"So you officially like him better than me, I see how it is," Dean fake-gripes.

"Oh, definitely. I'm totally sick of seeing you naked. Chuck? I could stand to see a bit more."

"Yeah, so, keep that talk to a minimum, asshole. There are things that don't need to be said aloud."

He waits because Dean seems to be mulling it over, still.

"Did. Um." Dean reconsiders. Or resolves himself. "Was he respectful? About it? To you? I mean he proposed in a _Starbucks_. That sounds like something he would think was a great idea but it sounds pretty fucking shitty to me."

Aw, god. Sometimes Dean really is his mom. It's kinda heartbreaking.

"He didn't think it was a good idea. He wanted to wait. He wanted to do it with, like, nobody around. Because he figured he was actually gonna strike out or something. But he got to telling me about the binding and it just kinda." Sam motions like a word rainbow. "Fell out of him. He got to his knees and everything. It was," he doesn't expect to get kind of choked up but suddenly his throat is closing a little. "Mm. It was. Uh. Yeah. It was respectful. It was also, like. He couldn't _not_ ask. And I just. I just kinda love him for that," he says, quiet.

They don't say anything else until they're pulling up to the crime scene. Sam digs through the glove compartment. Comes up with some badges.

Dean turns off the car and it's quiet while they assess the small crowd of officers and CSI.

"I am happy for you. I really am. So, like. Just take a few months. If he wants you so bad, he can wait while you figure out if you can really live with this thing rubber-banding you together is all I'm saying."

Sam nods. "Yeah. I know."

Dean squints out at the nice, blood-soaked house. "I think we should be The Ramones this time, but, like, Agent Ramone and Agent Ramone, no relation."

"'Kay."

«»

Chuck is burritoed in the bedsheets when he returns, on his back and snoring, middle of the mattress.

It always strikes Sam as dangerous that Chuck doesn't wake at the sound of the door. They might have to have a talk about that.

It's just. There's just moments where he feels like he's being an overbearing caveman and every time he wants Chuck to protect himself more, Chuck gives him this kind of... slumped look. Like he doesn't understand why he has to be a part of the whole guns-n-knives part of this.

The reality is that Chuck _knows_ why.

Sam might have to push the issue.

He kicks off his shoes and removes his tie and shucks his jacket. Walks quiet over to the bed and puts his hands wide on Chuck's side and shoulder for a moment before he turns him to lay on his right.

It usually helps with the snoring. But this time Chuck blinks awake.

"Hi."

He blinks again.

"What time did you lie down?"

"Two... thirty?"

"Okay," he palms the side of Chuck's head and leans in to kiss him.

"How was the crime scene?"

"Impressive. You hardly ever see a viscera spread like that these days. It was positively athletic."

Chuck fidgets until his hands are free and slowly reaches up to grab Sam's collar and pull him back down close. He stares for a moment until he comes up to kiss Sam's neck.

He wasn't gonna get in, but he gets in.

"Cas explained the whole binding to Dean," he says, moving the sheets and handling Chuck into a manageable ball. "He's not thrilled with the idea."

" _I'm_ not thrilled with the idea. But it's an option. I want you to consider it. I also," he scoots close as Sam lies next to him, "kind of. Um. The more I think about it. The more I want you to pick me. I mean. Do the whole binding thing. But with me. I think. I mean, I can't present a really extensive résumé, but I think I'm gonna be good at it."

Sam smiles into his hair, folds in all around him.

"At least I wanna be good at it. I'm gonna try. I wanna try, Sam. I want you to pick me," he says into his shirt. "God, you're wearing the gray suit. I'm so hot for the gray suit."

"You think the gray suit's good, but then," he pulls back and unbuttons his sleeves and starts folding them up. "You go really wild for the forearms."

"Goddamnit. Goddamnit," Chuck watches his hands work until he's wrapping himself back around him in the sheets.

"Were you gonna nap more?" Sam asks, and then decides to drop down and kiss into his mouth instead.

"I donno, was I?"

"I can work on the books and you can sleep 'till dinner," he offers.

"You slept four hours last night and six the night before. We need to have a fucking come-to-jesus meeting about your sleep habits."

"I could just borrow sleep from you."

"Oh, that's cute. That's cute. Do you sincerely deny that your life would be better if you got more sleep? Look me in the face and fucking tell me that. Look at my blissful face with Sam Winchester in my bed and tell me it's not more awesome to get more sleep."

Sam blows out a breath and pulls back a little. "We can talk about my sleep habits if we can talk about the safety issues when we're on the road."

Unexpectedly, Chuck doesn't deflate and mumble and turn away. He sniffs and nods. "Alright. Deal. What are your terms?"

"You throw all the locks when we have to leave you at the motel. You keep your phone on so I can call and you can let me back in."

"How do I know it's you? Are we doing a secret knock? This is a serious question. You lose phones all the time. This isn't me fucking around. What knock are we going with?"

"Four-three-four."

"Fine. No more waking up before six to jog. There's no reason to wake up that fucking early. You can jog perfectly well at six."

"Six?"

Chuck keeps pushing. "You realize, you wake me up most the times you get up to get out of bed. You're messing with my sleep schedule, too. I'm requesting this for both of us. It's not like I said eight. Or ten. Six is unreasonable to me, but you know it isn't to you. Six."

"Six and you keep a shotgun by the bed."

Chuck curses. "Like my sleep-addled ass could really maneuver a shotgun to aim as someone's crashing through the door."

"Fine, we keep a gun for under the pillow. One that I don't take with me when I go."

"You just want an excuse to bust out a new piece," he sighs. "Fine."

Sam watches him for a few minutes. Chuck doesn't mind being stared at. He touches Sam's neck. "That felt like," he considers, "pre-nup negotiations."

"You can have all my worldly possessions in the event of a- a-" Chuck doesn't say it. "Without you I'd have nothing, anyway."

Sam sighs and picks up his legs and hauls them over his own. Holds him close. "Is your alarm set?"

"Yeah."

"It'll wake us up in a while, then?"

Chuck leans up to look at the clock. "Like another hour, I think."

"Then I'll sleep with you, now. You don't have to be concerned about me," adds. "I'm used to not getting sleep."

"I want you to feel good all the time," Chuck says quietly. "I've decided to lead a relentless campaign. You're gonna let me win sometimes but I know I'll be up against it for the rest. I'll wait. I'll wear you down."

"I guess that's a pretty cool threat."

"Go to sleep, Sammy," he whispers and starts stroking at Sam's side. Pulls his shirt out from where it's tucked and pets and pets and pets. Sam didn't think of what was so good about being pet like a. Well. Pet. Until Chuck started doing it fucking constantly. It's so good.

And it chases him off to sleep faster than he thought possible.

«»

A knock on the door wakes him.

But not Chuck.

Which is, again, concerning.

He has to move Chuck's limbs all off of himself and it wakes him again.

Sam pushes a hand through Chuck's hair and he nods, stays put.

Claire. And a sort of pleading look. "Can I have Chuck?" she bounces on her heels, looks around him. Sees Chuck in bed. "Oh dammnit," she hisses, knowing how Chuck feels about nap time.

"No, it's okay, lemme wake him up some more," he leaves the door wide.

"Oh there's snacks. In my room. And coffee, I swear."

Chuck is blinking blurry but sitting up and pushing the covers away. Claire pokes around in their room a lot so she doesn't even blink at him getting up and shuffling away in his boxers.

Sam untucks his own shirt the rest of the way, grabs their jeans off the dresser and follows to shut them into the bathroom. Claire's gathering Chuck's laptop and pens and such.

He hands Chuck's pants over and closes the door. They brush their teeth first and Sam changes, Chuck tugs his own pants into place.

Sam corners him against the counter to hold his head and kiss him.

They hear her faintly through the door, "Your phone's going off!"

"Time to wake up," Chuck kisses at him and strokes his hands up Sam's exposed forearms. "Thanks for the pants."

He gusts a laugh over the side of Chuck's head. "No problem. Can I say something?" he keeps Chuck close. "I'm kinda crazy about you. I don't _not sleep_ on purpose. You're not really worried about that, are you?"

Chuck takes a breath. "I really am. You really need me to lock you out when you go?"

"I kind of also need you to carry a gun but that would work for now."

Chuck's thumbs rub over his skin.

"I." Sam thinks. Restarts. "Things will be different when we do have a- a _home_ all set up and secure. But my general sense of impending doom has a record of serving me better than my caution. So. I'm getting more worried about you going around underprotected. I just want some bare-minimum precautions. I'm getting increasingly nervous. It's getting hard to ignore. And if something happens before we get married, I feel like you're gonna take it as a sign and start backing off from me."

"I'm not that superstitious. That's not a thing that really applies to us. If something happened, it would be part of the job."

"No. You're not that big of a part of the job. That would be _me_ failing to do _my job_ correctly. You're my job."

"You have too many jobs. That's why you don't sleep," Chuck points out.

And there's some accuracy in it.

"Getting you to go part-time is officially another battle on my relentless campaign."

"I guess I go to work and you go to war."

"That sounds backwards-ass of us."

"She's being disconcertingly patient out there, she must _really_ need your help," Sam says quiet and close to his ear.

"I don't wanna fight battles, I just wanna get married," Chuck complains.

A groan simply falls out of Sam and he presses his mouth to Chuck's shoulder. "Say that again," he says into his shirt.

"Your turn, though."

"Fiancé. What a great word," he mouths at his shirt.

"No."

"I know."

"There's a teenager out there."

"Teenagers understand hickies."

"That's what I'm disturbed by. Decide what you wanna do to me later when there's nobody else-"

He kisses Chuck and immediately starts plotting.

«»

"Fuck," he blurts, feet drop out of the other chair and to the floor. "Shit," he scrolls and checks on his phone. "Fuck."

He closes the notebook and heads next door.

Chuck is hovering above Claire's bed, full of all the news reports... and, it looks like more they hadn't even seen before. The printed pages flutter slightly as the wind gusts outside.

Chuck's.

Ugh. Oh, that's not good.

He's doing that thing where he's thinking and, like, picking at his beard. It sends a little jolt of annoyance through Sam that he has exactly zero time for.

He looks to Claire, points at him. "I need my-"

"Shh! He's thinking!" she snaps.

"Goddamnit."

He turns and heads further, down to Dean's room. Glances in.

He's cleaning guns.

Sam steps in.

"We got it yet?" Dean asks.

"Got what?"

"Does Claire know where we're going next?"

"Oh, uh. I don't know. But. Something came up."

Dean only lifts an eyebrow, wary because they're nowhere near ready to have to split off to another hunt.

Sam waves him off, shakes the hair out of his eyes and steps out of the wind. "No. Um. It's a me-n-him thing," he points back the way he came.

Dean frowns. "What's up?"

"Um." Oh, man. Sensitive subject. He clears his throat and.

Chickens out.

"Uh, you know, nevermind."

Dean catches it automatically, sets aside his gun and points to the chair opposite.

He considers waiting until Chuck can back him up.

Dean only looks up at him.

Sam sinks into the chair.

"This place we looked at. This complex. Chuck and I were too slow to rent the only unit they had available. One just opened up."

Dean twirls a tool in his hands. Considers.

Pulls out his phone. They wait while it rings through.

"Where are you? You got your magic with you?"

He hands the phone over and Sam explains to Charlie.

"So you want me to keep the apartment unit open until the hunt is done? Or are you guys going to go get it right now?"

He cringes. "Can you do something technical that will force them to keep the unit open? We can't leave you guys hanging here. Claire will freak out. She uses Chuck to sort of filter when there's too much information."

"Yeah, I heard," she says, wry. "Hmmm. How... about... Lemme think. Okay. So I can block people from seeing the listing? But the way this is set up, somebody could undo my work while I'm not looking." There's not much noise as she navigates whatever she's doing on the computer. "Okay. Better plan. I'm gonna file an emergency claim on the part of a potential buyer... some kind of complaint. Okay. So that way? The place gets super-inspected by the state, the complex will have to remedy with 48 hours if they want to relist it, and when you guys get the place, it will be better-than-new. I like that plan. Say 'Good job, Charlie, well played, you're the best,'" she demands.

He shakes his fist in victory. "Good job. Well played. You're the best queen there ever was," he recites with feeling.

"I know!" she hangs up on him.

Dean stands and holds out his hand for his phone. "Is there coffee next door?"

"Well, Chuck's next door, so yeah."

They close his room up and wander over.

Claire is kneeling by the opposite side of the bed, rapt attention, and Chuck is telling a story like he doesn't even know what's coming out of his mouth.

Dean just passes them to hit the coffee pot.

"So call. Tell Cas and Charlie to head back to the first crime scene. We won't know if there's a pattern until we get a wider view of the damage. But. Honestly? This looks too good not to be a pattern."

Claire looks up to Sam. "But they said CSI already hit the house. Won't they have started clean-up by now?"

"Nah," Dean says.

Sam agrees. "It's not on the cops to clean up a private property after a crime. It's up to the resident or owner. So if there's anyone surviving from the family, they'd have to wait until the tape comes down, then hire a hazard clean-up company to scrub all the bodily fluids out." He shrugs. "It takes them a few days at the very least. Why, what did we miss?"

She stands and starts flattening out all the papers Chuck was stacking as he told his story. "The bigger picture."

"Do you- can we print a map? Or get one?" Chuck turns to Dean.

"Hold on," he takes a swig of his coffee and puts it down. "I got this."

He scoots on out of the room and disappears.

"Thumbtacks-markers-something?" Chuck looks to him.

"Uh-"

"Oh, I can get that," Claire turns to dig through her stuff.

Wow. Okay. He'll take what he can get. He nods at Chuck like, _Outside for a minute?_

He nods, finishes flattening out the pages again, and follows.

Sam pulls the listing up on his phone and hands it over.

"Oh no," his shoulders drop. "Shit. We're on the far side of fucking Ohio."

"I know. I thought we'd have to skip out real quick, but Charlie's gonna see if she can get them in trouble with some state inspector and give us a few days."

"Yeah. Oh, yeah, fuck yeah," he regains his enthusiasm. Blinks up. "Hey, maybe they'll get bad press and it'll force a discount or something."

Sam sways to lean against the wall. "I'm serious: You're not gonna have to spend money on this. Charlie's gonna set a thing up so our credit's good enough to get it."

Chuck scrolls the listing a few more times. "Third floor. Is that okay with you?"

He shrugs. "Perfect. You?"

"Yeah," he shrugs, too. Then looks down and stares at the picture of the empty bedroom until the screen goes dark.

"Come here," he grabs his phone and puts it back in his pocket. Pulls Chuck into a hug. "Don't zone out on me. Think out loud."

"I want you to have your own apartment. I liked the windows in that one. I think you did, too. I want you to-" He doesn't finish.

"I won't be on my own. I'll get to be in our own place with you again."

Chuck grips him tight. "I know. Does this really happen?"

"I was wondering the same thing. I guess this means it does."

«»

Dean brings back a big map of the area from a tourist pamphlet. They pin it to the wall and, when Charlie starts sending back 360-degree views of the crime scene, they see the pattern in that room reflected in animal mutilations across the entire area going back to the fucking '50s.

It's like a giant summoning sigil and it's getting bloodier. Someone's filling in the lines with color and waiting for their god to answer.

If they're guessing that they've finally dug up all the information possible, it could be a demon someone's trying to summon.

If they're missing something, it could be somebody else. Like a god.

"Who cares who they're raising? We have to find out who they are and end them. They just moved from animals to humans. They ripped through four houses in eight days. They're out of control," Dean declares when Cas comes in and confirms the map they've plotted out.

"The time span and the amount of activity at the most recent scenes also suggests there may be more than one of them. There may be an entire cult," Cas cautions.

Claire looks like she might throw up.

Chuck disappears from behind Sam like he actually will.

He tracks him down to where he's crouched beside the Impala with his back flat to the metal where it's still feverish warm.

His head is in his hands. Sam doesn't keep his steps quiet. Chuck needs to hear that it's just him approaching. "Just give me a minute. I have to. I have to breathe. I'm trying not to make myself useless."

Okay. Okay. What keeps that from happening? The stories only work half the time, but it's worth a shot.

Sam doesn't touch him. Really he fucking doesn't. He won't. He'll sit on the pavement next to him and make up some oddball story.

"What do you think would have happened. Um. If. If you'd ever met my Dad?" He cringes. Chuck doesn't like Dad. Probably never will. And he knows a lot of painful stories about him that resurface without warning. But he was scrambling for something. Some story for them to tell together.

Chuck lifts his head and sputters. "He. He'd fucking step on me."

Sam breezes a laugh. "Okay. Harsh."

"Are you kidding? I'm like a third his size. He would either ignore me or squish me like a bug."

"What if I actually had to shove you two in a room together and say, 'Dad, I'm moving in with this guy'?"

Chuck lets his legs fall out in front of him. "I mean out of the three of us, who is shooting who in this scenario? Because I see nothing but bad times happening there."

"Nobody's getting shot. I'm asking you what he'd say."

"Well, he'd laugh and tell you to get the fuck back in the car," Chuck says like he's explaining something to someone very stupid.

"Okay, yeah," he allows. "But you wouldn't let him say that to me. What would you say?"

"You mean what are my final words? Um. Your sons are better men than you. Get bent. And then probably 'ow' a whole lot."

"Really, he wouldn't pick on somebody your size," he insists.

"No, see, because you didn't even have the guts to say 'Dad, I'm _marrying_ this guy,' you just said we were moving in together. So tell me again how I'm overestimating the danger here."

"Ah. Um. Well," he tilts his head and looks up at the dark sky beyond the motel's neon glow.

"It would be just," he waves his hand, "a fuck-you-act-of-rebellion to him. He'd have no idea I've had my little typing fingers in your head making you _think stuff_." He nods, reasserts himself. "Yeah. He'd totally kill me. Just wipe me out flat."

"Yeah, well. I wouldn't let him," Sam folds himself closer to Chuck, at last.

Chuck closes his eyes. "I have to think for a second. I would rather fucking flee the state. But I have to thi-"

He stops.

Sam reaches over to touch him. To just put a hand on him so he's not alone. So neither one of them gets left alone.

It's resolving in front of Chuck's eyes. The broken, misread pieces pulling together. He was pulling strings of the story out as he told Claire but now it's turning from passing interpretation into bold images. When he has time to untangle everything, they turn from an incongruous scatter of words into paragraphs. (Books.)

"Oh god," he breathes. "Oh god. It's him. It's him and it's my fault."

"Nothing is your fault." Automatic. Unquestionable. "Who is it?"

He breathes a little harsher. Then opens his eyes. "If I'm connecting the dots right." Silence. "Ozgin. Oh god."

Ozgin. Demonic Lord of Madness. He knows the name instantly, but Chuck is obviously better at seeing the pattern because it's an intricate one Sam wouldn't recognize.

"The sigil," Chuck whispers all grim certainty. "I did this. I fucking did this. I _killed_ those people."

The only thing Chuck's been digging into lately has been about the binding ritual. And Sam's kneejerk reaction is to deny that it could possibly be evil. The thing that's gonna be his wedding _can't be_ evil. It's just not possible. "This has nothing to do with you," he declares.

"But it does. You don't _see_ ," he insists. "They must have- his cult is nothing but crazy magic. He must have showed them how to find out if it resurfaced. And it did. And they're killing people to summon him."

If they don't complete the sigil, the demon, himself, won't matter. "We just need to find the cult. Where would we find them, sweetheart?"

"I don't wanna know. I don't wanna know. Ask Cas, I can't know," his voice goes a little high and scared.

"Okay, okay," he drags Chuck into his lap and draws him to his neck and holds him for a while before he grabs his phone to text Cas the name.

He hears a sudden explosion of chatter back in the motel room.

He pulls Chuck up to face him after a while. Sam has to see.  
And Chuck's still present there behind his eyes, even if he's terrified.

Oh, god, he held on. Sometimes the threat of it seems so far off but after remembering something like this, Sam just swells with pride in him. He held on to himself when he could let the tides of centuries of knowledge just wash him the fuck out.

Chuck held on because he was talking. Chuck holds on for Sam. It must be so easy in the muted buzz. But he hangs on tighter every time. He's so fucking proud of him.

Chuck quit the booze for him and hung on.  
Chuck came out of hiding for him and hung on.  
Chuck comes out of his shell for him and hangs on.  
Chuck keeps his head for him and hangs on.

So Sam doesn't have to be on his own anymore.

"I keep thinking I couldn't fucking love you more."

Chuck slumps in his hold. "You're gonna know I'm a fucking idiot."

He shakes his head, "No. Please stay calm with me, we'll figure this out."

"The Colt. He's coming for the Colt. I brought it back out into the world. He's coming for his prize."

"Okay. What are you talking about?"

"During the apocalypse Ozgin was assigned seven of the seals. He broke each of them with the understanding that _his_ old magic gun would be replaced with the Colt. Lilith was supposed to deliver it. But instead she went to Crowley and played politics," it all rushes out of him.

Sam blinks. "And Crowley gave it to us. And we dropped it. And Bobby hid it in the ground. Probably consecrated."

"He's here for the gun he was promised. Ozgin wants the Colt. His people are telling him to come get it."

Sam sets his jaw and claws his fingers into Chuck's clothes. He doesn't want to let him go. He doesn't want to let him out of his sight until there's a dingy building full if cultists lying dead at his feet and his family's all safe. It kicks into his blood with a ferocity that almost leaves him shaking.

Chuck shouldn't ever look so afraid.

He loosens his hands to draw Chuck's head in close. "This is not your fault. That gun belongs to my family. We've fought and bled for it and we need it to protect people. You did exactly what you were supposed to do, giving it back to us and- look at me," he insists as Chuck's eyes start to drop. He waits and then repeats, "Not your fault. You're not an idiot. You're a. You're _going to be_ a Winchester - full-blown Winchester. As soon as I can make you one. You're our words and you always do right by us. I love you. We're gonna put a stop to this. It won't go further, okay? Do you trust me on this?"

"I don't want us to have to go up against him."

"That's why we take down the cult before we have to fight the boss. We need to go back in there and get to work. Please stay with me, I can't leave you alone in the room knowing this is going down," the words fall out of him and, okay, they're a little more tame than, _I will fucking snap if you leave the length of my reach any time over the next week_.

Chuck closes his eyes again and he shudders but it turns into a nod.

Sam kisses his head and kisses his mouth and gets them both standing.

The troops are already mobilizing by the time they get back to the room. Krissy and her people, Jody and Alex, all of them are headed out at Charlie's request.

Sam retells the details of Lilith's broken deal.

"He can have that gun when he pries it out of my cold, dead hands," Dean declares without question. "What we need is to find the cult and make bullets. Preinstalled Plan-B," he points out. "He wants a gun that can kill anything? We'll kill him with it if it comes to that."

Cas is at the wall showing Claire. Using a blue marker to connect the red dots. He sees the sigil clearly, now. He uses a yellow highlighter to fill in the parts of it that haven't become crime scenes yet.

He's grim when he points out to her, "The best way to catch those responsible would be to go to the points on the map where they still need to fill in lines." He tapes a piece of paper up on the wall, above the map, to extend his drawing. "This is what Chuck told you about. The points on the map from the probable date of the cult's founding to now illustrate not just Ozgin's personal sigil," he pauses, stretching to draw it. "But the sigils required around the outside of a summoning circle. It must have been completed first for them to summon him some day. So any points that we're missing must not have been found and reported. But the land would be scarred if we walked across a point-" he shows her with a pen, "-like this. Though no animal corpse may have been found there, or it may have looked like road kill, birds and scavengers wouldn't have wanted to eat it. And it would have rotted there after the ritual leaving traces of the spell in the ground and an EMF disturbance that would only just be detectable."

Claire looks like she's drowning.

"I am so fucking sorry, Claire," Chuck sighs from the table where he's huddled into himself and not touching the glass of water Sam set next to him.

He pulls out the other chair, pushes the cup to Chuck's elbow. Sits too-close, a hand over Chuck's knee. "Please don't," he says close and quiet.

Chuck finally takes the glass and slowly drains it as Charlie comes back to the motel and they start planning their next moves.

«»

Cas keeps reminding them that the cult most likely passes around spells that touch them with madness and have lately enabled them to commit more gruesome acts in calling of their master. Whatever old guidebook holds them together - they've started reading the last chapters. Those pages are giving them power.

The other kids get into town as soon as they can, but not before a cross is filled into the town-wide sigil.

Dean, Cas, and Charlie leave to investigate. Claire, Sam, and Chuck are to gather the necessary ingredients to make bullets for the Colt. Sam is supposed to teach her and Claire needs to be making her own bullets. She can't really keep the lead on this case anymore, considering how intense it just got, but she still needs to take something away from it. She needs to _learn_.

Sam watches Chuck too closely.

Chuck catches on when they're at the hardware store and spends the rest of the day under Sam's arm which is right. It feels right. It feels safe and careful and good.

Chuck has been too damn wordless since they busted the case open last night. They all got three hours sleep and he can only be thankful for Chuck's worrying because, without their nap, it wouldn't have been enough. Not enough to keep him on his game in all respects: alert and thinking and constantly aware of Chuck's location and able to keep holding a guiding hand out to Claire.

There's a health food store that carries some of the obscure herbs and salts they need. They're in line checking out and he keeps Chuck's hand to look close at the shapes of his fingers, his short nails, the loops of his fingerprints.

"You're right. I love your words. I should listen to them." He takes a deep breath. "I won't get up before six anymore. There's no reason I can't start after six. It's not an unreasonable time to me. You're right," he repeats.

Chuck's fingers close around three of his own.

"I promise I'll sleep more when I can," he looks down to him. "I promise I will."

Chuck lets out a gust as if he'd been holding his breath. "I think you're getting wise in your old age, Sam."

"I think I got somebody looking out for me. Showing me I'm not as smart as I thought I was."

"Maybe we just both make each other grow," he shrugs.

"So stop blaming yourself. I know this isn't your fault and I'm telling you so. I'm smart about this stuff. I have experience."

"You need me to come with. When it all goes down," Chuck assumes.

"Yeah. My caveman self is maybe not dealing with this threat very well." It's the implication that Chuck's actions in helping his family may have provoked a demon lord. If Chuck's hand in this is too apparent, if somebody finds out _how_ the Winchesters finally relocated the Colt, there may be questions. If other hunters get wind of this or if one of the remaining angels, hiding on earth, does the same, it could lead to questions about him. Sam wants him hidden as long as is possible.

They step further up in line and watch Claire in the far corner trying to hustle real-cane-sugar, organic gumballs out of a machine.

"She's gonna make a great underage-drunk flower girl for the wedding," Chuck says.

Sam snorts.

Chuck turns to stand in front of him. Grabs up his other hand. "I love you so much. How does your ring feel?"

"Normal. It feels like it should be there. Just," he shrugs, "be there." He looks down at it. Flexes his fingers so it reflects the sunshine angling in the front window. "You're beautiful." He maybe meant to say something more complimentary about the ring but this is more true.

He should have found one for Chuck before now. Should have been looking for something as stunning as Chuck is.

He draws him into his arms when they can step forward one more spot in the queue.

After they get a place a - temporary place - as soon as he can let Chuck out of his sight for more than a couple hours. He'll start buying the materials for the house. Contract some people for what they can't do on their own. And find a ring for him.

Two rings. One for now and one for later. That's how it works, right?

Two. One to sit on Chuck's hand so everyone knows they missed out.

One for when Chuck finally marries him.

«»

The lines of the sigil stay empty for a night. Claire and Charlie stake out a spot, Dean and Cas another, Sam and Chuck another, and Jody and Alex arrive in time to babysit another spot on the map just a couple hours before sunrise.

Dean's holding the gun. Cas is holding the bullets.

But no one comes at them. No one so much as flushes a fucking ceremonial goldfish as far as they can tell.

Either the cultists twigged to them being in town or they took a night off.

"More likely they're camped in one of the homes we didn't watch, finger-painting with some poor person's insides," Jody points out when they tell her the full story back at the motel. She'll have to get back in two days- or she'd like to. She and Alex left at noon on Friday.

She gets up and looks closely at the map, repulsed by the previous 'finger-paintings' Charlie's displayed on the laptop.

"I mean, nothing's marked here, but there are probably residential areas down each of these lines, right? Who knows- you know, needle in a haystack. Some random apartment along one of the lines could be just a dark little cave of gore by now."

"Yeah," Dean admits. "Though we're hoping the spell is getting so strong that Cas might sense it if he's in the right area."

"So we follow," she motions, "Castiel's nose to a crime?"

"Kinda," Sam shrugs.

She turns back to the map.  
"Oh boy."

Alex and Claire fell asleep on their stakeouts so they're more rested than anyone. Charlie volunteers to load up on caffeine and drive from spot to spot with them trying to find somebody.

Cas doesn't need sleep, so he's borrowing Sam and Chuck's car to go out and look for the cult directly.

Sam sees it happening before it does - he sees Chuck about to volunteer to go with, so he can _do_ something. Contribute. End this.

So he tugs on his hand. Presses his mouth to his ear. "Please don't. I need you."

He wants to push. But he doesn't.

He lets Chuck consider him.  
And swallow back his words.

Jody gets some shut-eye in Dean and Cas's bed while Dean sleeps on the couch. (Jody's got the bullets. He keeps the Colt under his pillow.)

"You were about to martyr yourself," Sam accuses behind their locked door. "You're exhausted. And you're not supposed to be hunting, anyway."

"Why do I get off so light?!" he tosses his hands up.

"You don't," Sam reminds him.  
Yet again.  
"You never got off light. The reason you don't go hunting is because one day your head might not come back with you. And we're pulling out of this over the next few years so there's no point in," he shrugs, at a loss, "getting in the habit or whatever."

Chuck looks pissed. Dumps himself on the edge of the bed and leans over his knees.

"Remember me saying you're not responsible for this?"

"I am."

"You're not," Sam insists, "you didn't know anybody had an interest in it beyond us."

"I knew Ozgin did." He scrubs a hand through his hair. "I should have remembered."

"Shit," he tosses a hand, pacing. "You can't. Chuck, you can't keep track of every agenda of every single being whose eyes you had to look through. It's impossible."

"I should have done it quietly at least."

"What, dug it up one day and hid it from me? Why? And how exactly would that have worked out?" He stops and stoops down in front of Chuck but he won't look up at him. Sam puts his hands to his knees but he still won't. "You had no idea one of the hundreds of demon bigwigs had any interest in slumming it up here in the first place. I mean, get real: who, besides us and a handful of overenthusiastic teenage Satanists, has even heard of this guy?"

Chuck sighs. "I may not have known that Ozgin would come after it, but I should have known someone would. I mean. Crowley? Probably? He would love it back. At the very least it would tempt him to put Ozgin on a leash. I know better. Thousands of power-hungry bastards..." he goes on but.

Sam is struck.  
Stuck.

On. On Crowley.

On.

Holy shit.

On two birds and their one stone.

He picks Chuck's head up out of his hands and pushes forward into his lips until it turns desperate and dirty. He hasn't done this enough the past few days and his fiancé is his fucking _muse_.

"Oh my god," he gasps desperate into his mouth. "Oh god never leave me. Oh god you're fucking gorgeous."

He keeps going without letting Chuck respond. Passes him great gasps of oxygen so he doesn't have to stop kissing him.

He has to stop after he draws Chuck's leg up around himself or he won't stop at all.

Chuck falls back under him, breathing hard.

Sam pulls his phone out and leans over him. Presses their heads together and with all the fucking love he can, holds Chuck's face, thumb rubbing, adoring him while he spares one more moment for the job.

"Yeah?" Dean answers.

"Who shafted Ozgin? He had a deal with-"

"Lilith," Dean finishes. "Yeah."

"Why did Lilith shaft him?"

"To make a deal with Crowley who made a deal with us."

"And out of those two demon traitors who's still alive? Who might Ozgin like to maybe meet in person?"

Dean's silent a moment. "You think we could do that? Feed Crowley into the woodchipper first?"

"If Ozgin has to be summoned this hard, by a sigil this big and bloody, he's in deep. It's taking Big Magic to pull him up. If he does, betcha we can toss Crowley to him to chew on. Distract him. Then gank them both."

"If we can't stop the cult."

"If we can't stop the cult. Plan-B."

"Yeah, well, I'm hanging up on you now because I'm tired of Plan-A never working out and I want to believe for at least the three hours I'm sleeping." And he does.

Sam tosses his phone aside and lets go of his restraint. _Nuzzles_ and caresses Chuck until he's warm and soft and sleepy and perfect. "Oh sweetheart. Don't you get it yet? You never break anything. You're always fixing me. I love you so much. I love you so much I'm gonna let you sleep instead of fucking you for an hour or two. Go to sleep, huh?" He kisses at his neck. "Go to sleep and wake up more brilliant in a few hours and teach me more about how amazing we are together. I wanna fit into your tiny life so bad." He closes his eyes in near-ecstasy when Chuck practically mewls and pushes his hands into his hair to draw him down and cuddle off to sleep.

He _worships_ Chuck. No tamer notion is accurate.

«»

Their alarm goes off and he snatches the phone out of the sheets to snooze it.

He's still lying all over Chuck. Poor guy's so exhausted he didn't even flinch at the noise.

Oh fuck. He wants to touch him. He wants to be touched back. Chuck trusts him without a hint of hesitation ever. He touches Sam back like he's been in his skin and knows where every button is, even the ones Sam's not aware he had.

Of course, that's pretty close to the truth. But Chuck has never used his inner knowledge of Sam to step beyond him and hurt him and if he ever did, Sam would know. Because Chuck would _cry_ and be heartbroken about it.

Someone finally knows what it's like to be so crushed by people you trust and he hasn't even had to deal with it first-hand but he agonizes over it anyway. He would do anything not to do that to Sam.

Sam can trust that.

It makes his chest tight. It makes him hold Chuck tighter. It makes him close his eyes and replay the way Chuck asked. He can hear every word. _Will you also think about marrying me?_

Yeah, actually. He'll think about it every day until he dies and go fuzzy over it at every opportunity and he will wish every day that he can build their life into something as deserving as that one, bright moment. When he knew what was happening, all of a sudden, and his doubt was crushed instantly like Chuck's knees had landed directly on top of it when he knelt down.

Oh, god, one of his legs is tangled over Sam's. He can rub at his knee without feeling guilty. It's not the achy one, but both of Chuck's knees are so important.

Who would ever even think such a thing?

He has to wake Chuck at the second alarm. He can't go hunting today without him. He won't leave him here.

Sam calls to him low and then with increasing volume until Chuck kind of wakes enough to move his eyelids. "I'm gonna keep you with me, today," he says, "you should wake up for that, hermit crab."

Chuck stretches into wrapping around him and wedging himself close.

Sam spans his hands across his back. _Oh, crab. Oh, sweetheart._

«»

The four of them are piling into the Impala when Dean gets a call from Cas.

"No. _Do not_ go in by yourself," he insists. "Call Charlie, get her and the girls over there."

They're all hanging on to their doors, watching, as Dean is frozen, silent, listening.

"Well, then call her again," he demands.

Sam grabs his phone out of his pocket and calls Claire as Cas continues to argue with Dean.

She picks up on the first ring. "Hey, Krissy and the others made it. Charlie's telling them to go meet Cas-"

"Well, tell 'em to book it because Cas just found something and he's gonna go in on his own," he warns her.

"Shit," she hangs up on him.

Just as Cas hangs up on Dean.

Dean drives as fast as he's able to - until Jody tells him to damn the speed limit, she's way outside her jurisdiction.

When they get there, Charlie is at the back of the parking lot almost physically restraining Cas. They stop yelling at each other when they hear the Impala roll up.

And Cas means business.

"Put the bullets in the gun. Whatever they just did is strong. Dark," Cas warns.

"Strong enough to be Ozgin?" Dean holds out his hand to Jody. Claire only had enough time and material to make 8 bullets.

Everybody starts gearing up as discreetly as they can, unsure if there are any civilians looking down from their apartment windows.

"I don't know. There's a thick presence in there." Cas seems like he doesn't much like the feel of that.

Sam checks his gun, moves the demon-killing blade to his jacket.

Claire answers her phone to Krissy. "How can you already--" She turns to Dean. "Um. They're finally here. They're coming in from the other side." She looks confused about it but they'll take whatever back-up they can get.

Sam finally looks down to Chuck. He's biting his lip and sliding the angel blade up his coat sleeve. He meets Sam's eyes and takes a breath. Comes around to his left side for once, standing just behind him. It keeps their dominate hands away from each other if they have to pull their weapons out. And he knows to stay half-behind Sam, between him and Cas.

The set of his shoulders is sure. Sam wouldn't be able to leave him behind and he wouldn't ask to be left.

They head into the complex, quiet. They're blocks of 4 units, two above two. Cas is heading to where one of the lines on the map caps off. He pauses, almost a faulted step. Hisses.

Something just changed. Someone flown away already from the look of him.

His blade is already out. Sam and Dean keep their guns held in their jackets but none of the residents stumble on them as they walk.

At the same end of a line of units, they see Krissy and Josie in the distance.

Charlie breaks off with Jody to circle to the back.

Krissy and Alex get behind Chuck.

Cas puts his hand to the door.  
Nods to Dean.

He drops to pick the lock, quieter and more careful than usual.

Cas steps aside for Dean and Sam to go in first, guns up.

Sam puts his barrel to the edge of the door and turns the handle, pushes it open fast.

The door squeals. Always a 50/50 chance of making noise going fast or slow. You never know which one you should go for. Rather than cringing at it, Dean is already in at his shoulder, checking the opposite corners.

Nothing. Furniture and.

A stain of blood leading down the hall toward the bedrooms.

Sam feels Chuck and Cas, then the girls come in after them. Nobody makes a sound. When they can see through to the back, Jody is looking through the sliding glass door from the side. They follow the streak of blood and Cas darts forward on silent feet to unlock the door and let the others in.

The slide of the frame but no other noise from it-

"Dean."

Crowley steps out of the kitchen.  
Wiping his red, red hands.

"Sam." He angles himself to look to either side of the hall. All their party frozen still on both sides at the sound of his voice. "Ladies _and_ gentlemen. Quite a gathering we have here," he says, interested. "Well. Might as well come in." He too-casually turns back and disappears into the room.

Dean looks _pissed_. He goes for the back of his jacket as if he wants to switch his pistol out for the Colt.

Sam slices across his own throat, nixing it.

They move through to the kitchen.

It's cramped with their presence. And all the blood and bodies.

The five people who used to live here are sat in their chairs at the kitchen table. Heads back, eyes as open as their throats.

And seven others lie in two piles stacked on the counter and the island.

They wear matching red and black clothes. They've been completely mutilated.

"Afraid you came all this way for nothing. And with what seems an army, too." Crowley watches those who file in and those hanging in the two doorways. "Shame."

His eyes find Chuck.

"Mini squirrel," he greets. "Gerbil? Nice to meet you again."

To his credit, Chuck only rolls his eyes.

Crowley narrows his own back at him.

"Curious company you're keeping, boys."

"What happened here," Cas demands.

"Little bells went off," Crowley says with an edge of excitement. "Came to see what it was all about. Apparently old Ozgin left some followers behind who wanted to call their frat brother up for fun and games."

"Ozgin?" Sam asks as if they don't know so Crowley will keep bragging.

"Tragically, there will be no meet-n-greet with the crazy codger. I had him put to death years back," he frowns, shrugs, like no big deal. "Had my boys deal with the cultists. Too bad you and your short-bus full of little helpers couldn't arrive in time to save the family here." He shrugs again as this is also no big deal to him.

Castiel's blade twitches.

Crowley focuses on him.

"Have to wonder how long you were playing hide-and seek with this lot. Deep scars all over the county. Hard to believe you were so blind as to not notice. They've been at it for years and I bet they kicked up the pace as soon as you goons went poking about. How's the feel of all that blood on your hands?" he smiles. Wiggles his fingers at them. "Myself? I've never felt so daisy-fresh."

Cas lunges as Dean switches to the Colt and Crowley's already fucking gone.

Dean _seethes_. "Would'a been nice to implement Plan- _fucking_ -B and here we were a step behind."

Aiden squeezes into the room as if from nowhere.

"The hell have _you_ been??" Claire is the first to ask.

But Aiden puts up a single finger. "Uh. Anybody hear that? Because it sounds like sirens to me."

Sam swallows a breath and listens and watches Cas actually roll his eyes and start pushing Dean and Claire out of the room before he hears it himself. "We can't do anything for them now. Crowley or his men must have called it in."

"We're _not_ just leaving them like this," Jody is stone-faced, unable to rip her eyes from the dead children seated at the table, their hands rigor-stiff claws in the spattered tablecloth.

"Jody, half of us are dead, all of us are armed, our shoeprints are in the damn rug, we got no choice," Dean shakes his head and him and Charlie basically have to drag her out the back.

Sam has to turn back and drag Chuck when he stops to use the sleeve of his jacket to wipe at the doorframe where Jody braced herself.

She's not used to thinking of herself as someone who shouldn't leave prints.

Sam helps, then hauls him away and they're the last out of the back door.

Jody, Charlie, and Alex hop a fence. Josie follows Cas and Dean. Aiden steals a basketball from a nearby yard and he and Krissy casually make their way to the roadside, bouncing the ball down the sidewalk as if they were just passing through the neighborhood. Claire waits for Sam and Chuck and they manage to cross the street and get into the 7-11 before any of the cops hit their side of the road. They buy sodas with Chuck's spare change and then head out to the parking lot with the rest of the civilians who have noticed the commotion across the street.

Eventually Dean parks to one side of the lot and they get to the car. Claire squeezes up front with Dean and Cas and Chuck gets in between him and Josie.

"Krissy called me, everybody else got out. We're heading back," Josie says. "So now you're gonna tell us who that sadistic asshole was, right?" She looks about as angry as Dean.

"Long, long story," Dean says.

«»

They debrief at the motel and it requires a retelling of their whole sordid history with Crowley.

Surprisingly it's Jody who has the least stomach for it.  
Or. Okay. Maybe not surprisingly.

She once thought he was a _nice guy_ for a whole half hour.

"So it's been how many years of this and you haven't plotted his downfall yet, am I getting that right?" she finally asks.

Cas looks exhausted. "It's more complicated than just taking Crowley out. He's no more powerful in social capital - his detractors are still nearly as many as his supporters - but even carrying the _title_ and making the decisions as King of Hell has imbued him with at least some extra power. Then there's the matter of." He wavers. Hating to say it. "The Devil You Know."

"You don't know who would take over in his place and you at least have some ability to manipulate him on occasion," Krissy works out.

"More or less," Cas admits.

Charlie moves around the crowded room, behind Sam and suddenly she's toting Chuck outside.

Jody starts to argue for a plan of action and Krissy, Josie, and Alex get behind this.

Sam... can't keep up with it.  
He has to find out what's up.

Charlie crouches next to where Chuck sits on the curb.

"It was bullshit, though. They started dropping humans _before_ we got into town. I mean, you know he was just trying to put the blame on us for a bunch of whackos, right? If he killed Ozgin so long ago, why not wipe out his cult and prevent them from, I donno? Shifting their allegiance when they realized their demon-lord wasn't gonna make an appearance? Chuck," she reasons, "this had nothing to do with us."

He only.  
Stares.

Stares out far past the parking lot.

Charlie looks up. "Tell him." She looks back to Chuck. "Sam wouldn't lie to you. This wasn't anybody's fault."

"The Colt," Chuck starts.

"There's no guarantee they wouldn't have found it without it being dug up. They might have found a way. And then it would be in the hands of some cultists. It's better that it's in _our_ hands so we can use it to _protect_ people, Chuck." As she does so often, her hand almost comes up to his shoulder to comfort him before she stops. Charlie looks up again. "Tell him." It's an order this time.

"I did tell him. And I'll tell him again. As many times as it takes," Sam lowers himself to sit on the curb, too.

Charlie frowns more and kisses her hand and pats it to Chuck's hair. Then heads back inside.

If he's learned anything it's that Chuck doesn't actually need the lecture repeated. What he's seeing as he stares into nothing is a kitchen full of bodies. Probably overlaid on images of whatever other families couldn't be saved in their various hunts in the past.

Sam has reasoned with him over the Colt thing. He just doesn't want to let go of the responsibility yet.

Chuck accepts that awful shit happens in the world.  
He long ago accepted that all of this is painfully real.

Sam is just supposed to sit with him until he's allowed to hold him.

Chuck blinks back after a couple minutes and raises his hands from his lap. They're tremoring a little.

He pulls at his fingers. Wipes them on his jeans as if they're covered as bad as Crowley's were.

Sam licks his lips. "You're not a gerbil." And claims Chuck's left hand to squash it between his own.

"Thanks. I don't like his stupid fucking name-calling," he says still sounding slightly empty.

He curls Chuck's fingers around his hand. Pets them down. "I think they're in there trying to think up ways to kill him."

"He thought they'd find the Colt for him. That's why he left them alive. They failed. So he killed them. He definitely thought they were killing in response to our presence. He still doesn't know we have the Colt."

Sam has to wonder at how he can be so sure of that. "Okay."

"He was there for something else."

"Something else. Like what?"

Chuck's blinking far-off. "He just saw our numbers. He knows about you, Dean, Cas, Jody."

Sam thinks. "From something Dean said. The last time he came around - when he popped in on us? He might know about Claire, too."

Chuck is blank. "And me. Now he knows I made a reappearance."

"And now he knows about the other girls, plus Aiden."

Chuck's eyes narrow and a horn blares and he jolts back.

"Woah. Woah, you're okay," he lets Chuck tug his hand away to wipe it on his jeans again.

"After all this time, they think it's as easy as springing a trap and killing off the King of Hell? Not gonna happen. He's watching, now. Now he knows he has to. It would be better if everybody dumped their cars, got new, and hid in the bunker until it confused the trail," Chuck's way worried. It's rolling off of him in waves.

"The kids aren't gonna wanna be locked up in there. Jody _can't_ , she has a town to police."

"I know. It just. It would be better. I want Dean to look out for them for a while, it would be better. Cas could check and so Dean could be sure that everybody's safe."

His heart kinda locks up in his chest. Chuck really does know what Dean needs right now. And it would be the smartest move. But, "Sweetheart, _we_ can't even stay. Not if we wanna nab that apartment. Charlie's trick won't keep it open forever."

"I know. I know. None of us are gonna stay in one place. That just can't work." He closes his eyes tight like a headache's behind them and wipes off his hands again. Then stills them on his knees. "Okay," he says.

Sam pets the back of his head and carefully takes his hand up again. "You wanna eat with everybody and sleep a little while? Or you wanna start driving?"

"Couple more hours." He opens his eyes. "Please? Everybody needs to check for tracking devices at least. All the kids have the tattoo?"

"All the kids have the tattoo. Jody's a badass, she's got one, too. Hey? It's okay. How about you and me go get the food, huh? And we'll hang out a couple more hours and then go rent an apartment." Sam tries a smile out on him.

Chuck blinks slow and scoots closer and reaches up to pull him down. They hug and Chuck kisses his ear. "I don't want anything to happen. Sam, I don't want anything to happen. I wanna. Just."

"Build a house? Get married?"

He crawls up into Sam's lap and yes. Now he'll be okay. If he can just hold him for a little while they can move on from this. They can let this be and move on to the next town.

"It's good luck, you know. That Claire's first case turned out so bad. It's all uphill from here," Chuck nods.

"Hope so. We'll tell her that. Wanna go get her and we'll pick up the pizzas?"

"Yeah." But he needs to be kissed some more. Then he will.

«»

The unit they want gets relisted as they're driving back West.

Charlie's computer magic held out just long enough.

Sam all but threatens them into giving him the apartment and has a genuinely hard time not grabbing Chuck's hand when the guy asks his "new roommate" to sign the paperwork, too.

He does make out with him as soon as the keys are in hand.

Then he bundles Chuck onto their new couch to sleep after all the commotion. They're both out for 12 hours and wake sometime after four in the morning.

"You're not going anywhere," Chuck reminds him. "New rules."

"Not even you can roll over and sleep anymore," he points out. But he doesn't move to get up.

Chuck shrugs and climbs on top of him.

"Are we breaking in the furniture already?" Sam pushes his hands up and down the backs of Chuck's thighs.

He considers. "I don't know. Kinda eerie in here. Mostly empty. Stranger's furniture. No light." He inhales. "No smells. Nothing covering the windows. I can almost see the street lamps in the parking lot. Almost."

"You still okay with this?"

"Yeah," he shrugs again. "Used to it. Just not this clean and quiet," he drops his voice to whisper.

Sam draws him back down, very-aware of their hips locked together. "Lemme start again: Chuck? I wanna have sex with you in our new apartment. You up to it?"

"Yeah," he's in the absolute-black shadow of the cushions so Sam can't see his face, but his voice kind of fractures a little. "Oh god. I know this isn't the half-way point but for some reason it feels like it? That doesn't even make sense. I just feel like maybe we're gonna... fall into each other and this will just get better and better. I want that to happen. I wanna make your day every damn day you wake up. I can't wait, Sam. God, Sam. We did this," he marvels.

He holds Chuck close and wants to feel the way they move now. He can appreciate the milestone, he can, even if he doesn't quite know where Chuck is coming from as far as the timeline. It seems like they've been together for years. It seems like there are only a few months until they have a real home. Like this is just a pit-stop.

Though he knows that's not true.

What is true and immutable is the fact that the thing he feels most proud to call home is pressed against his front, well-rested and warm and getting emotional like he does when Sam falls super hard in love with him.

"Hey," he calls out to him in the dark.

And Chuck responds by kissing him. Just fucking passionately.

Sam manages to toss off the jackets they used to cover themselves and haul Chuck up close and into place.

He holds Sam's face and keeps kissing him so Sam doesn't push it. He lets Chuck dedicate himself to his mouth.

Spans his hands because, goddamnit, he wants Chuck to always be here. He wants to always be between his thighs and feeling Chuck just _respond_ without hesitation. He does it when their touch is polite, too, and when it's demanding and when it's protective. Chuck will press himself into Sam if Sam wants to hide him. This feels so ingrained. It hasn't been that long at all but they know each other so well.

Sam wants to hide him, now. From the demons and the disappointments that depress him and the past and all the things clawing marks into his brain.

He wants to roll Chuck under himself and power inside and keep him naked on this couch for the day, just waiting for Sam to make him come again.

He wants to make his hu- he wants to make his _fiancé_ grip his shoulders and shudder.

His hands go down and unzip them both. Then he sinks his hands into Chuck's pants and just grips his ass and waits for Chuck to settle down a little so he can grind up.

After a while longer, Chuck backs off his mouth and eases where he's sitting on Sam. Half-hard, Sam rolls up against him and Chuck moans just beautifully.

In stereo.

Because the room is still half-empty and it's higher, wider than anything they're used to.

It gets him so hard and they're rolling together when Chuck finally notices.

He slaps a hand over his mouth and uses the other hand to grip the couch, letting Sam rock his whole body up.

He stops and Chuck whimpers behind his hand.

Sam tugs it down. "Please don't," he wheedles, voice half-wrecked. "Please. How am I supposed to know if I'm doing my job right if I can't hear you?"

Chuck cries out and it echoes like hell. "Oh, god," he whines after and, in the spare light, Sam can see him look determined to bite his lip to shut up.

Nah.

Sam sits up and kisses into Chuck's mouth. Hauls his body and turns and puts Chuck down beneath him. He keeps Chuck arched into himself with one hand wide on his back, sneaks the other slow into the front of his pants.

Chuck falls away after a while of solid stroking with an, "OhgodSam," and Sam lets him ease back down... so he can pull Chuck's hand down to his own jeans and Chuck can't use it to silence himself again. "Fuckfuckfuck," he whispers. "Fuckdammnit. Fuck. Oh god. You're so fucking hard for me," he sometimes sounds so surprised to discover that, it's almost comical.

"Always so hard for you. You know what makes it ten times better?" Sam's hips lose a little control.

"You inside me?" he asks breathless.

"Besides that," he leans down to his ear, "when you talk for me. When you're loud for me."

"Sam. But Sam. It. It's _too_ loud."

"No such thing." He slows down a little and presses in to kiss him. "This is amazing. I didn't know our new apartment would have a bonus like this, sweetheart. It's perfect." He scoots back to take Chuck into his mouth for a little bit because there's _no way_ he'll keep quiet, then.

Chuck tries to choke back his noises but he's wildly unsuccessful. He has to let go after a minute and grip the couch on both sides. Even his breaths echo. Even Sam sucking on him echoes.

Chuck lets loose a wordless wail and Sam decides to have mercy on him.

He licks him one last time, lets him fall away from his mouth, and kisses the underside of his cock before he kisses back up his body and then slides them together.

"We'll put muffliato on the doors. Promise. I don't care if it breaks the renter's policy or whatever. Then you can be as loud as you need to and I never have to miss one goddamn sigh. Holy shit, Chuck."

He closes his eyes as Chuck gathers them in his hands and lets loose and uncensored and Sam presses down to swallow the rest of his echoes.

"Gonna fuck you in here. In our apartment. Gonna build you a perfect house." He can't hold back anymore: "I'm gonna give you a home. Give my fiancé a fucking home I love you so much fuck don't stop."

"Sam," he's repeating and repeating until Sam's on his mouth again. He indulges then rips away in the coming crest of it, too far, Sam getting desperate for him. "Sam, you have to. I need it. I need one," he pleads, "I know I said-- but I need it. Oh, god, I'll make noise for you if you give me- bite me- give me-"

Sam shouts, just losing it almost completely, and drops to his neck to breathe-to-breathe-to nose his collar out of the way and bite-suck at his skin. Mouth and lave and sink himself into the only bit of Chuck he can right now when he's not really inside him.

Chuck cries out and comes for him so fucking beautifully. Echo of him high and pleasured and breathless in the rest of the room.

Sam comes on him, in his hands wrapped around them both, and his legs tremble but he wants to pull Chuck up tight and rip his clothes off and splay him out on the floor and finger him until the sun comes up, then sink home. Press his legs wide and ride into him. Watch his new bruise color in the growing light.

And what the fuck is wrong with a plan like that? Indulgent as it may be, it fucking _feels right_ and, oh yes. Yes he's gonna do it.

He yanks his own shirt off over his head and Chuck's hips make an abortive little thrust and he whines.

"I'm gonna try out our new shower with you." He pushes his hands up under Chuck's shirt to pet up his sides. "Then I'm gonna lay you down wet in front of that window and drink off your skin. Ready?"

"Is this a 'welcome home'?" he waits - because he's so, _so_ good - to be drawn up by Sam.

"Almost, sweetheart," he kisses him and they wander to what-will-be their bedroom, what-will-be their bathroom. "Nice, clean, sunny new shell. I'm gonna get you the best shell of all. I'm gonna build that for my significant other."

They flip the lights on and the mirror is huge and pristine across from them.

They are a mess.

Days of stressful hunting and too little food, too few showers. Long drives and couch-sleeping. Chuck is ravished. Bitten and dirtied-up and, like Sam, kiss-reddened, hair in disarray.

Chrome fittings. Day-bright lights. Glass with no fingerprints. Bruised and road-worn in a perfect reflection.

Sam thinks they couldn't look better if they were missing teeth.

He smiles at them and Chuck smiles at them and they shower.

All they have with them is what they brought on the hunt. Clothes and limited supplies.

One towel.

Sam takes it from the bag and makes his dream a delicious reality: spreads Chuck out on it on the floor and just about drives him crazy until the sun is up and he could already do with another eight hours of sleep from having a second orgasm pounded out of him.

Sam pulls Chuck on top of himself again and lets him doze for a half hour while he just.

Stares. At Chuck and at the morning light. Adores their spotless new windows and this oddball man who is simply passing his life into Sam's hands at every opportunity.

On long drives, as a perpetual passenger, he could only stop to breathe and see the world - really see it, the rolling hills and perfect lines of blacktop and the stars and the sunrise - when Dean was in the mood to do the same.

His taste for that has faded.

When Dean adores things, they're exclusively people and movies and music and food. Things that come from people's hands.

Sam is still kind of staggered by nature. By the enormity of the universe and the ways man is and isn't able to filter and perceive it. He loves the people in his life as much as Dean does. He just loves different things about them. Not just their warm bodies and their ability to protect the family, save lives, hunt, get wrapped up in each other and stumble into love and care. But the ways they think and the things that interest them and the marks they leave on the world when the world itself seems so colossal and unshakable. The ways they change the world extend to the lives they impact and preserve, of course. But Dean still seems to think of their job as a family agenda.

Sam doesn't feel that way. He thinks-

He _knows_ that what they do changes the world. The entire universe.

Lucifer showed him that. Cas has showed him that and so did Balthazar and Gabriel and so many others with lifespans that encompass more than a paltry few centuries.

He doesn't have to like it. He does have to adapt to it.

He feels like Chuck has a closer vision of reality than anyone else has had to his own.

Chuck knows the huge, wide span of things. He made an impact in the only way he comfortably could (by writing – by protecting the Winchesters while telling the tale of how the world was saved). And now he can do more, because Sam has a longer reach. Because Sam is in the position to pass on his knowledge and skills to future generations, Chuck's words can accompany his own into the future. They can do this together. They can make the world a safer place beyond the span of time that they'll live in it.

It doesn't feel wrong to want Chuck to use him to carry his words forward. The same way it doesn't feel wrong to move Chuck's body because it's smaller and he can. (He's _allowed_ , oh god yes.)

Sam feels like, the more they move together - the more they travel and think and puzzle things out together, even just touch and move their bodies together - the more their vision aligns and they come to share goals and sentiments and he just.

Just kind of needed somebody solidly, unquestionably on his team for like a while, now.

Not that he would count Dean as opposition.

Buy he's maybe hurt Dean too much, in the past, to pass him the ball on anything but instinct. Habit.

He can make a pass to Chuck because they haven't hurt each other. It's pure love and trust.

It's not starting from scratch, but it has been a cleaner slate. Less complicated. If he were to keep something from Chuck - something new - Chuck may not know what it is? But he would already know Sam's motivations behind hiding it in the first place.

He would understand because he has no choice but to understand. All he can do is extend the same understanding blindly to Chuck, though he doesn't have the same insight. It keeps them on even footing.

Chuck is honest. He doesn't want to lie. He knows how much work it is to keep lies straight. But sometimes he needs to be reminded that neither of them is inferior in importance to the other.

He holds Sam up on a pedestal. He's in awe of him and it dawns in his eyes, still, to this very day, that Sam wants to be around him and it makes him stuttery and worshipful and... hot.

But he doesn't get that Sam holds him up just as high.

Chuck has more bravery in himself than he credits. More anger and love and knowledge, too.

And the reason Chuck was drowning out the voices, the reason he still loses himself behind them and disappears for hours, is because his human mind is trying to cope with a mass of information that has driven other prophets entirely mad.

Way back at the beginning, after Chuck's first visit to the bunker, Cas explained that he'd seen inside of Chuck's head. And it was impossible not to notice that he was doing his best to compartmentalize and live with the vast galaxies of knowledge that had been fed into him. _As much, if not more, than that which an angel has access to._

And angels are built for that. Humans - even prophets?

Not remotely.

Prophets die young, Cas had assured him.

And, now, that?  
God.

Chuck scares the hell out of him.

Sam found out he dumped his heart on Chuck and he hasn't stopped being scared since.

He signed up to love somebody who is pretty well past his expiration date.

His tiny self has _too much_ knowledge packed inside. His little, breakable self.

Sam looks at the new bruise Chuck said he could give him and it's dangerous. It's hard not to think of _everything_ as dangerous. Hard to let Chuck live his life and be free and dumb as anybody when one damn unseen thing could suddenly crumple him and put him in the ground.

Now Chuck is once-dead and nearly-Winchester.

He's basically on The List, just waiting to get crossed off.

Chuck's not just anybody and he could be taken from Sam's side even more easily now that he keeps his company.

The hickies hurt. Chuck explained once, deep into a night of quiet secrets and touching each other, that he knew "good aches" and "good hurts" happened to people, but he was personally unfamiliar with them until recently. He fears all pain, even the good kind, but he can work himself up to _needing_ it for something to hang on to. Sam isn't so sure he likes that but he's not incredibly inclined to question it since he loves marking Chuck up so much.

He likes biting kisses and sinking his teeth in and sucking hard and Chuck understands that-- knows that about him.

So he really thinks it's more of an effort on Chuck's part to like the stuff that turns Sam on.

The bruises are nice.

It had not been nice when it was the huge burst of gray and purple across Chuck's back when he hit him in his sleep.

It was terrifying to have done that much damage to him when he was already in pain from the tattoo.

Sam quickly half-convinced himself to just ask Dean to lock him down like a sleepwalker in one of the basement cages.

Just as quickly realized he'd make Chuck think he wasn't loved if they slept away from one another. If he left him alone.

Blurry and tired on the floor like a goddamn asshole was when he first took Dean's suggestion to heart: Chuck was gonna find out he was an angry mess and he was gonna save himself the pain.

He was gonna leave.

Sam has had the privilege of loving some seriously beautiful people. He just hadn't ever seen something as beautiful as Chuck crying because he _missed him_. Wanted him to be okay. He'd been blaming himself and from that point it just all fell into absurdity. It made no sense to love him from the floor. He might as well have kept hunting and left Chuck in Kansas City.

Feeling him again had been a revelation of a different kind. Dean was still right about something.

He should have asked Chuck to marry him.

Sam was still working off muggle time, assuming he didn't really have the right to ask yet when Chuck had just up and done it himself. Sam hadn't even thought it was appropriate to start asking what Chuck thought about exchanging rings, let alone looking for one.

Damn good thing Chuck knows him so well. They didn't even have a conversation about it. Chuck was just able to surprise him. Just able to make his far-off _maybe_ into a living, breathing reality.

"Will I get a sunburn this way?" Chuck mumbles.

"No." But he shifts Chuck to his right side anyway. "I'm just gonna lightly toast you on both sides."

"You're staring."

"Mm. A lot."

"Don't even think about it. I'm done. You went to town on me for like three hours."

"Yeah. But we're sticky. We need another shower."

Chuck groans.

"What are your thoughts on décor?"

"I litter everything with books and fandom garbage and tend to just blow town after a few months."

"Nice. I usually go with a garish plaid of some kind and like a taxidermy deer nailed to the wall but I skip out after a few days."

Chuck lifts his head and resettles more snug. Sam plays with his writing hand against his chest.

"I like the windows but blinds would be nice or it will get too hot in the summer," he comments.

"Can we have a big table here?" Chuck asks. "Like right here. For eating and writing."

"Of course. And we need a mattress."

"I don't care about décor unless the idea is that this is our practice place so we know how to do the house up right. If you need me to start practicing that and thinking about curtain patterns or whatever. I mean. I'll do it. I can work on that," Chuck assures him.

Sam pulls Chuck's middle finger to his mouth and Chuck lets him suck on it for a minute before he shifts a little again and takes his hand back.

"I was really thinking sad things," Sam admits.

"Well think about them out loud. Misery loves company. I'd hate to miss out on a good wallow," he lets Sam have his hand back.

"I like to have sad thoughts and then realize that you're naked on me."

"Fess up to the sad things," he says with a lot less nonsense attached.

"I worry about you. I just. I want you to." He takes a deep breath. "Live."

"I don't want you to think about my mortality. I think I just wanna plan like we're both gonna be really annoyed to have lived so long."

He snorts a laugh.

Chuck gives him a long-quiet moment to kiss his fingers and he startles when his wrist cracks. "Shit. Fuck. Sorry."

"Hm, no, that felt good." He rotates his thumb until that cracks, too. "Oh man."

"I don't know if I can leave here. We have to spread this out. But. Dammnit," he skids a hand over Chuck's sun-warmed back.

"I know. Oh, Sammy," Chuck pets at him. "I know."

"I need to feed you. I need to read. We need a mattress. We need to fill the fridge. We need to drive back to Kansas. We need to. Dammnit. Do grown-up stuff," he gripes.

Chuck exhales and his eyes dip closed again. Then, in the glory of the sunlight, he scoots back and sits up and starts shoving their hips together, rolling on top of Sam.

He wants to say something to stop him. Tell him he's hungry and exhausted and he doesn't have to.

But he looks fucking _heartstopping_ and Sam is never, ever not ready for him.

He slides his hand back over Sam's thigh, leans back, glowing and exposed in the light. He gets his legs under him better and feels back, presses so he's riding his ass against Sam as he hardens.

His hands bolt to Chuck's hips and he sits to start moving with him, kiss down his throat.

Chuck's still a mess so when he leans a little and sits back on Sam's cock, it slides in with just one knee-shaking little shock and moan.

Sam takes this huge inhale, and shudders. Drops his head to Chuck's neck and hugs him. _Thanks_ him, which used to seem weird but Chuck does it so much, it only sounds right.

Chuck hugs back and tries to ride him but he's a little confined by Sam's arms.

Sam flails his hand out blindly for the lube and moves Chuck up and down at his own pace so he can get them a little wetter and then drive up into him.

He blinks down and. He knows this won't change anything, but, "You're not hard."

"Can't. But wanted you to feel good again," he pants.

"That's so unfair," he shakes his head and his hair falls in his eyes and he puts all his power in his legs to lift and get them back into the shower. He fucks him, yes. Chuck plays him like a violin. He comes so hard he nearly crushes him against the wall. Then he washes him with all the tenderness and devotion he has. Stops just short of running his mouth over his entire body a second time in one morning.

He dries them both off with a shirt and he helps Chuck sort of trip into his clothes. If kissing him distracted counts as 'help.'

Chuck waits on the couch while Sam gets dressed and finds their keys and wallets and weapons.

"Feels just a tiny bit thrilling that we can leave some stuff here when we go. We need. Like. Dishes. Plates." He's leaning on his hand staring at Sam's ass and generally empty of any fucks left to give.

"Well, you decide what's first."

"Bed."

"Food, then bed."

"Oh, if you must," he shrugs. "Lamps. Tables. Lube for every room. Your fucking abs. Your fucking body is just," he shakes his head.

Sam laughs. "Am I carrying you to the elevator?"

"Well, I don't know how the hell else to get there, so."

«»

They run around for a solid day, putting more into the apartment than they expected.

He gets an impatient call from Dean that seems to imply that they're expected for dinner the second day.

He agrees and when he hangs up he turns around and Chuck looks _so sad_.

"Oh sweetheart," he comes to crouch in front of him, their mattress still on the floor. "I know." He pets Chuck's head. "I know. But Dean-"

"I know. I just." He shrugs. Squishes his fingers into the soft foam of the new bed.

"I love you," Sam insists. "Do you wanna stay? I can get another car and-"

Chuck shakes his head and leans forward for a hug.  
"Windows," he says.

"I know," Sam says. "I know." He presses his mouth to Chuck's head to kiss, to promise to bring him right home. But he can't do that. He wants to. He just can't.

What he can do, what he does do, is pull Chuck's keyring out of his hoodie pocket and take the second apartment key from his own jeans. He wedges the ring open and Chuck wrestles the key onto it.

Teamwork.


	2. no one's running this whole thing

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *** Slight emetophobia warning for this chapter. ***

Dean has some of their ideas for the house, but they've got to provide him with more.

He washes off the table after dinner and shoos everybody but Sam away.

"It's your house, too," Sam drags Chuck back into the kitchen.

"He didn't ask for me."

Chuck has been avoiding being in too-close quarters with Dean. Sam can only assume it's because Dean keeps looking at Chuck like he understands him a little better and Chuck doesn't know how to deal with that.

The mild hostility he was fine with. But now Dean seems to think that Chuck _gets it_ as much as he does. Whatever devotion Sam's brother has toward him, he seems to understand, finally, that he and Chuck share the same religion.

In truth, Sam got over Dean's imperishable regard for him a long time ago. As much as he fears disappointing his brother, it sincerely doesn't seem like Dean's capable of letting go his tendencies toward suffocating love even with their complicated past.

Sam's still always unsure of where that comes from but it just? Kinda feels normal?

This is normality for his family.

Chuck just wasn't aware that he'd tripped up to the same level as Dean. It's probably the reason his own proposal snuck up on him.

Sam noogies Dean before he goes to sit on the other side of the table. He makes sure Chuck comes to his side and doesn't escape.

Dean doesn't mind any of it of course. He shakes off the noogies and he'd probably slide a beer across to Chuck if he was allowed to.

He has drawings, sketches, and measurements cluttering a notepad over several well-used pages. He flips to a blank one and they get down to specifics. "I need to know some of the things you're expecting for this. Like, some of the exact stuff, right down to the damn color if you already know."

Sam and Chuck blink at each other and a riot of disbelief suddenly rattles around Sam's insides.

He can't believe he's about to start building his _home_.

Dean raises an eyebrow so Chuck starts by clearing his throat. "Do you need this in any order?"

Dean frowns, shakes his head. "Just throw it at me."

"Okay. Sam hates popcorn ceilings and crown molding. I do, too. Sam wants carpet, but I think it should only be upstairs."

"Hardwood? Tile?"

"Um. I prefer tile? It's harder to dent with furniture. We can always get rugs for him." Chuck looks up to him while Dean writes notes. But Sam's suddenly got _nothing_.

"The um. Libraries," Chuck turns back to Dean, "the majority should be downstairs and on the opposite side of the house from the kitchen. I think there should be lots of shelves in the bedroom for Sam's best books, though? And probably a safe. Sam said I should find a giant bed for his giant body online."

Dean snorts but just keeps writing.

"East," Sam finally blurts out. "Um. East-facing window in the kitchen."

"Get the panic room back if you can," Chuck adds.

When Dean's done writing he looks up to Sam. "You're gonna have high ceilings."

"Thanks."

"What else?"

They're very quiet.

"Oookay," Dean tries again, "why do you need the library-"

"Fire hazard. If too much paper is by the kitchen I just feel like the house would go up faster. And the books should be downstairs to keep the weight off the top floor," Chuck says.

"Huh. That's the kinda paranoia I can get behind. Okay."

"Bathtub," Sam blurts. "Um. I'm gonna special-order that, too. Big shower. And um. Big." He glances down at Chuck. "Tub."

With a pointed stare, he attempts to tell Dean not to ask why.

Dean rolls his eyes in response. Keeps writing.

"Hood fan," Chuck requests. "Hood fan over the stove venting outside. I'd rather not live with what I eat for weeks at a time."

"Big kitchen?" Dean asks, hopeful.

"Listen, if it's _too big_ neither of us is gonna find the motivation to clean it," Chuck sighs.

"Fair point," Dean allows. "I hear a lot of business about how Claire wants her own room-"

They don't say 'no' outright but they grumble.

"... I'll just make sure the libraries can double as guest rooms. Couple downstairs bathrooms. Fold-out couches."

Chuck gives a thumbs-up.

"Cool. Weapons lock-up?"

"Oh!" Sam perks. "Lace out the basement. Go nuts. I trust you."

Dean drops his pencil to rub his hands together and savor the thought. "That's why you're my favorite, Sammy."

Well. Yeah.

"Beams to hang-dry herbs. Or a good closet or something," Sam adds.

They're silent while Dean thinks on paper. Then he looks up. "Colors? Nothing?"

"Green," they both say at the same time.

Then they look at each other because that's not actually something they ever even discussed.

"And gold and brown?" Sam says.

Chuck just shrugs. Nods.

Oh. Wow.

"And windows. Crazy windows," Chuck says.

"Gonna need a fireplace then, probably. That's another fire hazard. Just tell me you'll try to be careful," Dean bops the end of his pencil on Sam's head and he... actually didn't realize until just this moment that's he's considered the clumsy one.

He just thought Chuck was being cautious.

He frowns.

Chuck grabs his hand under the table and squeezes. Half-grins up at Sam.

"So," Dean says, looking over his notes, "foundation's gonna be bigger. Cas and Charlie are advocating for some sort of garden? Which they said they'd help you with if you're not wild about it. And the foundation is gonna be pushed more to the south so it stays far enough from where the workshop will be. Do you care about the garage?"

"I'd prefer not to have to walk to the house in the snow with seven bags of groceries," Chuck says.

Dean only "hm"s. "Care about how the house faces?"

Sam's thought about this. "Well, whatever direction Cas says is more advantageous. We want him to pre-install warding into the house, at the bottom layers where it won't ever be disturbed. Whatever Cas says will protect the house best."

Chuck nods. "And whatever _modern_ security Charlie would recommend. I know this is." Chuck hesitates. "I know it's being built as our house and, no, I don't want it to have to be a center of operations, but. I just can't stop thinking about."

He stops and shakes his head and Sam feels like it's important to finish that thought aloud. It's not silly. It's not even out of the question. In their line of work, it's the only responsible way to operate.

"Chuck sees-- well. He has a lot of memories come back up about that time Death sent Karen to deliver a message to Bobby."

It's like waking nightmares. Chuck's memories of that week fighting a town full of the undead are not like the other ones that drag him under and drown him.

Chuck just remembers the event vividly. Presently. So many eyes were awakened to the apocalypse on that one occasion that he's seen the same story through hundreds of different people.

It makes zombie escape and prevention one of his unmentioned priorities in life. He doesn't like to talk about it because he worries that it's silly. So many shows and books and comics and video games have thrown around the concept in recent years that he can both access more perspectives on the concept to freak himself out, _and_ frequently consider preventive measures that would be easy to take. Sam has wondered, but never asked, if that's the real reason he keeps the baseball bat around.

Dean thinks for a minute.

"It's stupid," Chuck tries to wave it off.

"No," Dean's still thinking. "The fence can be replaced with a real fuckin' sturdy gate. We can have a place for a backstock of provisions. The weapons will be taken care of. We can get Cas to sanctify some of the surrounding woods so there's a place that's hard for things to congregate in and a clear path out of the area in case you gotta run. I know Sam's granola-eating ass wanted solar with a battery bank and he wanted to use water off the creek. It's possible to make the place at least stable under attack, if not a full fortress."

Sam knew he could trust Dean to take it seriously. He was in the thick of it with Bobby, after all.

Chuck eases at his side a little. "So. In theory? Ummm what would it take to _make it_ a full fortress?"

Sam ends up being the one who has to reel the both of them in.

«»

He picks up as much as his freak fingers can hold and makes his way back out to the library with breakfast.

Chuck is already typing (which is good; he doesn't see Sam fumble like a dork and almost dump the orange juice).

He looks up when Sam slides his half of the stuff over, though. "The cinnamon rolls from the _inside_ of the tray, for my beautiful fiancé," he smiles and arranges everything around the laptop.

Chuck stops dead. Stretches and wiggles his fingers over the keyboard. Slowly draws the hood of his shirt over his head and pulls the drawstrings. "Oh gosh," he whispers.

Sam grins.

It would seem this is still taking Chuck some getting used to.

Sam palms the side of his head and presses a kiss onto the hood. He's gonna like messing with him like that. Chuck's gone all pink and moves his laptop out of the way so Sam can sit closer and they can share their plate and he can throw his leg over Sam's knee under the table.

"Wanna open that email?" Sam says, still chewing.

Chuck nods and tries to reach past Sam to get a napkin to wipe the icing off.

He's gonna hand them over, but then he just takes Chuck's hand and sucks the icing off his clicking finger.

Chuck sighs. "Okay, well, that works, I guess. Now I'll get Sam-spit all over my mouse."

Sam only shrugs because, well, he gets it everywhere else, so??

He watches Chuck open the email. There's nothing but an attachment.

"Vamps," Chuck reads the title of the document. "Did you write me a story? Are we vampires in this?"

"Nah," Sam finally stops stuffing his face for a minute. "I started this a few years back. Amazed I found the file again-- well. An early save of the file. I added to it, but I know I lost that laptop before I saved the files anyplace else, so I don't have the bigger version. I mean. So. You said we can write. And teach. Right? So. This is-"

"This is..." Chuck scrolls. "This is 56 pages of vamp lore. You start... wow. You start by deconstructing the bullshit and separating the myths from the stories that mean anything. And. You have... an outline," he squints at the screen and Sam wipes his own fingers off to pat around for his glasses. Remembers that they're on Chuck's head, under the hood, and uses his clean hand to pull them down on his face. "An outline for how to hunt them and fight them. But you didn't get that far."

"I got into the hunting part, not the fighting part. I mean. I DID. But that's the part I lost."

Chuck frowns at it. "No plan in this outline to add your own hunts to it."

"Well," he shrugs, "no."

He shakes his head, saves-as to the desktop. Then lifts his hands from the keyboard. "Um. Can I?"

"Yeah. Sure. Go ahead, that's why I sent it."

Chuck minimizes everything to pull the file up and skip to the end where the outline still looms large and unfinished. "I'd rearrange the order of how things go here and I want you to add your own hunts. And talk about that guy Benny? But-" Chuck stops himself.

Cuts himself off with a hand through the air.

He squirms away, gets up, stands to pull the cinnamon roll out of Sam's hand and hug his head.

"Holy shit. Thanks for showing me your writing."

Chuck actually squeezes his head, like. Really hard.

"CHU-"

He steps back but keeps Sam's face held. "Oh my god. Thank you." He's actually getting really emotional over it and it's taking Sam a moment to process this. Because it just started off as a really long rant about his annoyance at popular media's dangerously misguided portrayal of vampire lore. Then he was like, 'well, you went to college, dumbass,' so he looked up real historical texts and made Dean get addicted to watching _True Blood_ so he could criticize a current-day example and. Really? It's not amazing. He just figured it was a frame for Chuck to deconstruct and put back together. He figured he'd show him that he's capable of moving forward with this. (Push forth the point that they're _equals_ \- even if Sam still doesn't feel that way sometimes - and that Chuck picked the right guy.)

But Chuck gets fidgety about his own writing. It goes out to the public, it's for public consumption. And sometimes Chuck still has a problem sending his stuff out because he feels like--

He has a problem doing this and he's a _professional_.

So he's thanking Sam for showing him his stuff.

Well. Sam wasn't thinking of it that way. But apparently he just showed Chuck another piece of the inside of his head.

So he's grateful.

"You're welcome."

"No, you like _really_ did a good job!!" Chuck insists.

Sam shrugs again. "I'm glad you... I'm glad you think so highly of me. You. You haven't even read it yet."

"Yeah. And you were gonna let me move it and change it and make it into a textbook. _Thank you_ ," he insists again.

Oh. Okay. He presses into Chuck's left hand. Lets Chuck fawn over him and pet his hair and say "good job, Sammy" against his mouth again before sitting back down to push everything aside and just eat breakfast with him. "I'm excited. I guess I'll work on this while you guys start dealing with the bare bones of what needs to be done on the house. That way we can have a finished product to show to Charlie and she'll know what we're all about and she'll be able to scan _your work_ into her database. Then, after she uses it to cross-reference a few times, we can give her better-fitting books for our follow-ups."

Sam's just excited that _he's_ excited. "So you'll work on that while we do construction stuff. And when we're together here?"

"We'll work on the ritual. Okay?"

"Yeah. I mean. You can work on construction stuff, too-"

"It all starts with math, though," Chuck waves him off. "When Dean says it's okay for me to come around - when he's got jobs for me to do? That will be another thing. But right now we should let him plan some. He needs to start _envisioning_ stuff."

So that's what happens for the next two days. Chuck reads his notes to Sam until it's time to crack open the actual book and read through with Cas's translation notes. He doesn't want the straight translation yet. He wants to go in unbiased, and Cas, as a reader, clearly encounters a little bias through the text. Nothing huge, but he's an angel and, at some point, angels were barred from the knowledge of this.

Then it's time to go home again. Time to go back up to the apartment.

Sam and Chuck actually stay up late the night before, whispering in the dark about how excited they are. About all the stuff they left there and the box they're bringing up. About the groceries they left for themselves and what they'll get to cook in their kitchen.

"We're such dorks about this," Chuck marvels at one point.

"I know. God, I know. But it's bigger than one room. And we'll have it all to ourselves. It's, like, four whole rooms and we have it all to ourselves."

"Kitchen, living room, bathroom, bedroom," Chuck actually counts off. "All for us. I could walk out to get breakfast in my boxers. Why does this sound like such a luxury?"

"Windows," Sam reminds him. "Because we'll have sunshine and windows."

«»

They absorb their apartment.  
Settle into it deep.

They said they were going to work on their projects but they end up installing the tv and they curve together on the couch to watch movies and make out and feed each other and just be quiet and out of danger for a couple days.

Sam pulls Chuck's laptop out of his hands and sets it aside and they go shop for sheets and they discover the markets around their apartment and they find Sandra and Kate, from across the hall, at the little park with a jug of orange juice and a box of wafers and their pet turtle, Justin Inthelake. They hang out and feed lettuce to Justin Inthelake and Sam gets to meet the neighborhood dogs as they are walked by.

Dean is antsy by the third day.

Sam thinks about their neighbors and the frozen yogurt place they haven't had a date at yet and the blinds he just installed on the windows and Sam wants to be equally impatient with Dean. He wants to pull back against his tugging. He wants.

Well.  
He wants his house, now, and a husband to share it with and a yard to dig up and shelves to fill.

So. Until he really has those, he's got the apartment. The half-way point, like Chuck said. And it was two days the first time. Three this time. Maybe he'll talk to Cas and get him to dare Dean to leave them alone for a whole week.

Dean needs time to unstick from him.

Sam knows it, he knows Dean needs _time_. Sam is just.  
Surrounded by beautiful things. And windows.

And he doesn't want to be in that hole. He prefers the hunting to the bunker. At least in motels there are places to go, nearby. Lebanon doesn't have much in it.

He goes to their bedroom and puts a hand, wide, on Chuck's back to feel him breathe. It wakes Chuck up from his nap when Sam sits on the side of the mattress. "Hey, sweetheart," he whispers.

"Come here," Chuck requests. So Sam lies down with him. "Do you wanna head back?"

"Not really."

"Then why do you look like Dean called?"

Sam has no idea how that works. "He did. Doesn't mean I wanna go, though."

"Probably for the best," Chuck yawns. "We weren't getting much done."

"I donno. For a couple days there it felt like I was living."

«»

Claire catches up with him in the hall.

"Hey, so I texted Chuck yesterday about whether or not you guys were gonna have a room for me at your place and all he replied with was a dolphin emoji?"

He very deliberately swallows and caps his Gatorade back up but the spit-take is a near thing.

He clears his throat. "Um. We're not that far into the process, Claire. We weren't really planning on having a lot of guests all the time-"

"Well, I mean like _my room_. I mean, you love me, don't you?" she puts on these innocent fluttery eyes and.

She must be joking because no one could seriously think that would work on him. "You're gonna. We. We love you, yes. But you... uh... you won't, no," he concludes and turns and walks back to the library while she makes offended noises behind him.

He gets there.  
He stops dead.

No. Fuck no. He was only gone for three minutes!! They just woke up two hours ago!

He plunks the bottle on the table and moves around to scoot Chuck's chair.

He won't stop poking at various points on his face  
His eyes are far-far away and hardly blinking. Out of focus. Staring right through everything. Even Sam.

"Wow," Claire's suddenly at his shoulder when he crouches in front of Chuck. "What is he doing? Is he high? I saw a kid do that once on bath salts."

He's not watching himself so he snaps at her, "He's not fucking high."

"Geeze, alright. He just looks like it."

Sam ignores her.

Chuck's fingers won't stop their slow progress.

"Chuck? I'm gonna touch you," he announces. Because it might not be _okay_ to touch him right now, but the poking has to stop before he hurts himself.

Chuck's eyes sort of drift to him. But he doesn't agree to it. So Sam just really has to take it slow, broadcast his movements. He reaches up and tucks his fingers into Chuck's palms to draw his hands away.

He finally blinks. "Hey, Sam."

Oh _god_. "Hi. Hey, sweetheart. Can you tell me where you are right now?" he asks gently.

Chuck's eyes go curious and his head tilts a little and then.

Doubt. Surprise. Worry.

His eyes look around. "No," he says like a secret.

"Oh my god," Claire echoes his thoughts behind him. "Chuck? He is _really_ not okay. Sam, what's wrong with him?" she frets, sounding too-young, on the edge of freaked.

"What was I doing?" Chuck asks.

"You were, like," she illustrates, "poking yourself. Holy shit. You really don't know what's going on right now." Dean gets just about that same level of disturbed when he sees Chuck this way, but he knows to just usher Chuck over to Sam. This is the first time Claire's seen it happen.

"Oh. Yeah," he agrees vaguely. "Bobby shot my face off."

Okay _holy shit no_.

"Chuck, I'm gonna touch you. I'm gonna take you to our room."

He looks confused. Sam stands and tries to tug him to do the same. "Oh god, you're angry. You're angry at me," he concludes.

"No. Not ever at you. But I'm incredibly pissed the day just started and this is happening to your brain."

Chuck tears up and looks more miserable and lost in an instant.

"No no no!" He lets go to scoop up his face. "No, I'm not pissed _at_ you, I'm pissed _for_ you-- you. You can barely even hear me," he slumps. "Alright, Chuck. You're okay. I'm gonna grab you and we're gonna go to the room, okay?"

"Okay," he sniffs miserably.

Sam reaches down to gather him up and lift him and he sniffles into Sam's shirt as they walk.

Claire scoots by to open the door in front of him.

"Thanks."

"Is he gonna be okay?"

"We have to work on it. Could you-?"

She takes one more worried look and shuts them in the room.

He tries to leave Chuck on the bed so he can get up and lock the door, but Chuck clings.

He doesn't know how to let go right now. Or what emotions are leaking out of him. He can't see around the stuff in his head to take in information correctly.

Whatever monster Bobby had to shoot in the face has Chuck in a memory-chokehold.

He has to open his clawed fingers and get him to let go and sit back.

He stares at his hands until Sam comes back from the door and sits across from him.

"What am I doing," he says, half-breath.

"You're trying to come back to me," he says with more hope than sense.

"I can't have hands what am I doing?"

The impulse to shake him to try and rattle him back into his own skin has never occurred to Sam before now. It wouldn't work. But if it were that easy, he'd be tempted to do it and apologize later.

Chuck's _out_. He hasn't been this far out in a long time.

The need to bundle him in bed is a little more sensible. But if he does, he can sit there all day with him - he just can't touch him. It would feel so fucking ugly. It felt mean and impatient and harsh to pull him out of the library like that, but he needed to limit the rest of his sensory input.

Oh god. It's really fucking unfair of him to get so instantly lonely. How must Chuck feel? Buried under who-knows-how-many other minds? He can only hope it doesn't feel like being lost. Or drowning. Or abandoned.

He reaches up to get a tissue and wipe Chuck's face before he's falling apart, too.

"Chuck? Sweetheart? Can you try and listen to me?"

"I think I am."

"Okay. Okay. That's good. I'm gonna touch you. I need you to sit back so you're not sitting all stiff and stressing your body out."

"Uh. Okay."

He does his best to fold his legs and lean against the pillows where Sam guides him.

"Oh crap," he sobs, dry and sad. "I'm so sorry. I don't know what I'm doing. You don't have to help me with stuff. You can let me deal with it."

"And get left alone?" he leans in and asks sweetly. "I never wanna be left alone. I always wanna sit here and bug you, sweetheart," he teases to try and make the hurt dissipate.

Chuck is confused. Then accepts it as some kind of truth. "Don't go then?"

"Thanks. You know what I wanna do? Let's tell a story. We'll write, okay?"

"Okay," he tilts his head curious and shivers.

"Can you give me your arm?"

Chuck has to look to his arm to see and, yeah, it's freed up, so he lifts it into Sam's hand.

"You're cold," he announces, and yanks the sheets from under himself. He drapes them around him and piles him inside. Then backs off again. "We're gonna rewrite something. You remember when Dean and Cas and Charlie went to the beach?"

Chuck thinks. He waits for him to find something to input.

"I don't. Really?"

"Well. They took some time off and went to the beach. And I called you because I was thinking about going on my own. But you said you don't go to the beach. Because fish fart in the water."

"Fish are just gross all the time, I wouldn't put it past them," Chuck accepts this.

Sam laughs and it kinda helps him ease up a little. "Yeah. But not crabs or squids, right?"

"I should fucking well-- am I in a--" he struggles in the cocoon of sheets.

"It's warm in your shell, just stay there," Sam pets at his arms through the sheets until he settles back down.

"I don't know. What color is this shell?"

The sheets are upside-down. "Brown."

"Oh alright then."

Sam can only shake his head. Sigh. "So you didn't want to go to the beach. But I ended up wishing we had, anyway. Tell me what would have happened if I just showed up with a bunch of towels and suntan lotion and beach chairs."

"Towels? Hmmm. I know what happens on towels wow Sam wow."

He's pretty pleased that Chuck at least remembers what happened on the towel in the apartment. "Yeah. But we weren't doing that yet, remember?"

He looks stricken. "We weren't. Oh no."

"We were friends, though," Sam offers. "We were learning each other. We were getting to be good friends. I want to take my grouchy friend to the beach, come on."

Chuck seems to concentrate on it with some actual dedication. "You would have showed up at my door. When I was. In Colorado?"

"Right."

"And. Instead. Because I said, 'I don't go to the beach,' you would have brought me out anyway. All I can picture is getting a sandy laptop."

"Well, yeah. You can't bring that with."

"But I have to work. I have to write. I don't really wanna go to the beach."

"That's so strange of you, hermit crab. I think you'll love it there."

"Okay. Alright. Fine. I'll go to the beach," he huddles in their sheets.

"We could do something else?"

"No. There's no place like the water for squids. No place like the sand for crabs."

"What about dolphins?" he laughs.

Chuck looks puzzled.

"Claire says you decided what she is. You texted her a dolphin?"

"Oh god. Yeah. Yeah she just chitters away and runs around. That's what she is."

"What's Dean? A shark?"

"Sperm whale."

Sam busts out laughing.

"No hear me out gosh. Sperm whales can take on giant squid. They go as deep underwater as each other and they fight epic battles in the dark. The squid end up leaving their marks all over the sperm whales. They're both smart and they're both deep. Sperm whale. Sperm whale."

Sam considers this. "But. Enemies."

"Well they don't have to be. You're both so big you wouldn't even notice hermit crabs. And I think I've fucked up both your lives considerably so this is obviously a fictional ocean we speak of."

Sam scoots in close. He wishes he could touch but he doesn't want to. Judging from Chuck's far-away stare, he still wouldn't be touching the right person. That's not okay on so many levels. But he needs to know: "You didn't fuck up our lives."

"I donno. You super sure about that? I mean. Sandalphon. Ozgin. Zachariah."

"No, now, look. You can't possibly blame yourself for Zachariah. That doesn't even make sense."

Chuck looks weary all of a sudden. "If you're looking for sharks," he says kinda vaguely. He blinks for a long moment. Then nods. "I do. I do blame myself for Zachariah. I have to. I told him where you guys were. I told him when he wanted to know things. He made me tell him," he insists, quiet and haunted. "Sometimes I'd tell him just so it might hurt a little less. I wanted to kill myself. I think I almost did a few times. I don't know if I got all the way there and he brought me back or he made me do it just so I'd know what he could do."

Sam gets sick to his fucking core watching this. Listening to what Chuck's mind spits up at him when he's in no condition to deal with it. He leans closer. He won't touch. But Chuck really is drowning in there. He's done this before. He couldn't hold back what he was saying. Revealed more than he ever intended to Sam.

But it's stuff he _needs_ to know. Stuff that Chuck flushed so far down his own mind that he feels bad about it but he couldn't recall it in the daylight. Whatever Zach did to him that he thought he packed away tight is falling out on the floor for Chuck to see.

Chuck feels bad for folding under torture.

He's crying again.

"Please come back to me. Please. Oh god. I can't touch you."

"I know," he slumps. Pulls the sheets tight.

"I want you to come back to me so I can," he can't help but plead. "Chuck, you didn't fuck up our lives. That was the angels. If you didn't give us up, Zach would have squashed you and tapped the next prophet," he ducks to try and catch Chuck's eyes. "You didn't have a choice, sweetheart."

"I don't remember things. I don't remember what I don't remember. He took things away. I'll never know what. I remember flashes and heat and headaches. Oh fuck. Fucking headaches. I remember when he told me about the others. And he just slid a drink over. And all he was ever- he always just. 'Write. Do what you always do. Write.' Somebody should have told you and _I was that somebody_ and I should have warned you."

This couldn't be any more maddening if it were happening on the phone. He can't keep letting him talk. He shouldn't have to. Sam's curiosity shouldn't outweigh Chuck's peace. He needs to drag him out of his own head. The story didn't work. They wandered too far. He-

"Glass," Chuck is shuddering. "Sometimes I'd wake up and think I'd broken a tumbler in my hand. The glass."

Stop right the fuck there. "Okay, Chuck, stop. Come back. Listen to me. You know how. How sometimes you tell me how good I am? And I tell you to shut up 'cause I can't take it? I need you to do that again. Talk about me. Or talk about Dean. Or talk about Claire or Charlie. Talk about someone you love. Something. Anything. You always say the best shit when you love something. I want to hear you just go off. Just come back to me. Come back to the stuff you love," he begs.

Chuck shudders again. Sam can rub at his arms through the sheets. "I love you. It's hard to find you right now. But I love a lot of the things other people love about you," he sniffs back his tears and Sam lifts the sheet corner to wipe his face again. "Everybody loves how tall and goofy you are. Did you know that? Everybody loves you. Well. Not everybody. But they should. That's so fucking ignorant!" he suddenly bursts. "I can't believe people don't know. People don't care. There should have been a line in front of me. I should have had to beg you to say yes. I don't know if I'll ever feel more ashamed of anything than I was that you fucking jumped at the chance to say yes to me when I'm such a putz," he whines.

"Oh god. Literally nothing is working," Sam declares.

"Nothing ever works! I'm fucking broken!" he freaks. "Why won't you ever fucking touch me?! Oh my god!"

"Chuck. Oh fuck. You know why."

"You can touch my knees! They're completely innocuous! You always touch my knees!"

Holy shit. "Okay," he presses a palm to either knee and rubs his thumbs at the inside. "Okay?"

"Yes! For fuck's sake! They're _my_ knees! Oh my god. I'm yelling," he whispers.

Sam can't help but suddenly drop his head forward, laughing.

"Oh my god. Your hair's so amazing." He makes crab claws in the sheets. "Can I touch your hair?"

"Fucking of course you can. You can do anything you want. I love you so much. I'm so in love with you. Please come back to me?" He chokes on the words a little. The truth of them too tall for his throat. And knowing Chuck is too far back behind the crowd in his head. He's not coming out any time soon. It's so awful.

Chuck climbs out of the sheets and Sam has had about enough of this shit already. He moves to lay down and put his head in Chuck's lap so Chuck can touch his hair without reaching high up.

"Don't stop," Chuck says, so he keeps a hand on his knee.

"Don't stop," Sam says, so Chuck rubs at Sam's neck and pets his hair until his hands stop because he's passed out, calm and asleep.

«»

Sam divides his time between reading the notebook for the binding and clutching his own head until there's a knock at the door.

He checks on Chuck and pulls the sheets up a little and sneaks outside quietly.

Dean squints at him because he must look as fucking awful as he feels.

"What happened?"

Sam is hovering at the cracked-open door for a second before he decides to pull it shut and they walk to Dean's room.

He grips his head again. "Zachariah tortured and mind-wiped him I-don't-know-how-many times. I wanna gut something so bad. I wanna hurt somebody so fucking bad."

Dean takes a deep breath and he shuts the door most the way. Pushes Sam to sit on Cas's side of the bed.

"Repeatedly. _Repeatedly._ He had access to Chuck all the time. He had an archangel to protect him from demons but no angel would have protected him from another angel. Chuck doesn't even remember all of it. But what he said. I. I can fucking imagine and. Angel Family Values, y'know?"

Dean sits next to him. "Well. Wish I'd had the chance to kill him bloody. I thought what he did to us was fucked up. Can't imagine what it would've been like to have him as a babysitter."

Sam finds himself rubbing at his own stupid knees and stops.

Only to start again.

"Claire said he went out of his head," Dean prompts.

Sam doesn't know what to say to that. Just nods.

"It happens a lot."

He nods again.

"Cas says it's a prophet thing. Circuit overload. Something like that."

"I can't make it stop. We can kind of prevent it a little before it starts. But once he goes. I. I lose him all day. I can't fix him. This isn't a spell, this is biology. This is just how psychological torture and strain manifests, you know? I can't. I just can't fix it," he feels like he has to insist.

"Sammy, I get it. Okay? I get it. You spend your whole life protecting people and now you signed up for this and you think you can't protect your own," he shrugs. "Fiancé. Okay? I know."

Sam just exhales. Tries to unclench his jaw.

"That's um. Why I got an idea."

He blinks. "O. Okay?"

"Yeah. So, uh. Like your ring? Cas said it works like another layer on top of the tattoo. Right? And that it was made at a certain time so it's helping with your body temperature. Right?"

Sam nods.

Dean clears his throat. "So, um." He shrugs. Gets up and brings back his laptop. "Check this out." He gets into his browser bookmarks and opens two tabs. "So this one. This one, you'd have to special-order it from a witch in Morocco. But he made this one with metal from coins that were donated to build mosques - holy coins. And it helps with psychic pains. And this one," he moves to the other tab, "was made to help psychics who have a hard time pushing spirits out and reclaiming their own heads after a session. See?"

He passes the computer to Sam.

They're rings.

Sam looks to his brother.

"Did you buy a wedding ring for him yet?" Dean asks.

"No."

"I'm supposed to help you with this stuff. I'm your best man," he tries to say it offhandedly. But he's obviously somewhat excited about it.

Sam is. Baffled.

And then.

"Dude. This is. This is brilliant. Thanks."

Dean shrugs.

Yeah. He's excited. That's unexpected.

Sam frowns and starts looking at the rest of the stuff on the jewelers' sites.

"I mean, there are other tattoos, too. I know Chuck doesn't like that stuff, but he might wanna think about it. And I was thinking about that kid Andy - remember? And how he sort of just went for it on the whole mind-reading thing, but he learned about it so he could control it. So maybe Chuck needs to read books about how brains work," he shrugs.

Sam kinda... looks at him again.

"I mean. Listen, Sammy. He's. I mean, he's a pain in the ass, but he's been good to you. He's good _for_ you. And maybe. I mean. He's gonna be family. It's not that I don't care about him just because he's annoying. You're both annoying," he points out, trying to be funny.

But Sam sees what's happening here.  
"You're not gonna miss me. The way you speed, it's like a two-hour drive. It's nothing."

Dean sniffs, looks away.

"I know Bobby's is farther than that. But. We'll see each other all the time. We just won't be sick of each other when we do."

"I know that," Dean leans over on his knees. "I know that. And. Cas keeps. He's been thinking a lot about. He thinks he's doing something wrong because we."

He stops. Looks back up at Sam.

"Um. Did you know there's such a thing as. As. Um. I um. Asked him. I asked him," he finally admits.

And sits back to toss up his hands.

"Um. And, apparently? Me n' Cas are already married. Can you believe that shit?"

Sam sits back.  
"Unbelievable," he tries to sound shocked.

"There's like this spirit-grace-rubbing-up-against-each-other rule or something. I don't even know. But, um. According to him, we already beat you to it," he says, clearly still baffled by it.

"That's. That's amazing," Sam scratches his head. "You'd think somebody would warn you that's even possible."

"I know, right?!"

«»

He's sitting right there and Chuck is a little impulsive when he's faded out of himself. So he kisses Sam's hip when he wakes up and cuddles up to his leg.

"I'm sorry-sorry. I'm so blurry."

He closes out everything on the tablet and turns the screen off, sets it aside. "Can you come up here and lemme look at you?"

Chuck slowly crawls upright. He's blinking a little more but he still looks sad and bummy and half-checked-out.

Chuck takes his hand when he frowns. Sits back beside him, against the pillows.

"I don't dream, at least. Been having weird dreams lately so. That's a nice. Um. Reprieve." Shakes his head.

Sam can only squeeze his fingers.

"I feel my face. It was hard to feel before. It was." He clears his throat. "A shotgun. And I." He scrubs at his cheek, rough. "I should say something. Because. Um. The first time I didn't ask. You were the one who did and." He scrubs at his face again. "I think I need help. I can't. I don't want to do this anymore. And. I'm supposed to be able to ask you for help. Because. I'm starting to worry myself. And you. You shouldn't have to sit through, like, episode after episode of this."

Sam is actually not okay with that. "Look at me," he tugs and waits. "This isn't some bad habit. You don't do this by choice. I'm gonna worry about you the same if I see you pushing yourself or not. I pay attention, Chuck. If there were a pattern to it, I would have noticed by now. But there's not. Now... I appreciate you asking for help. And there are things we can try. But don't go around feeling guilty because something is happening _to you_. You can't help this. This isn't like the alcohol, you can't just quit it."

"We do the stories sometimes."

"And, yeah, that helps," he agrees. "But I was just talking with Dean about how that only goes so far. And it's probably because Zachariah kicked the shit out of you."

At the very thought of him, Chuck seems to tuck further into himself. The hallmarks of repeated and brutal abuse.

They never even checked on him.  
They never thought to.

They were too busy feeling used by Chuck because of the damn books.  
As if it was the life he'd chosen.

"I wanna hold you so bad right now," he lets go of Chuck's hand.

"That's why this has to stop happening. I get washed out and you get lonely. We're supposed to be getting closer, not farther."

Sam just sits there thinking. He bites his lip before he says. "New story. Ready?"

Chuck settles back and they don't look at each other.

"Tonight, we pack up a box. It can be stuff from the old apartment so it's not stuff we're using right now. Tonight we pack up one box. And tomorrow we drive it up. Tomorrow we'll take this one box up and unpack it in the apartment and we sleep there. Then we drive back down."

"And we sleep here for one night," Chuck continues. "Pack another box and go for another night."

"It's a wildly inefficient method of moving. And," he cringes. "Really environmentally-unfriendly."

"We could do two boxes, two days at a time."

Sam sighs. "Dean's just gonna have to get used to it a little bit faster, yeah. When the boxes are gone, that's it - so are we."

"Okay. We could do two boxes, two days at a time."

He looks down at Chuck. "You just said that."

"Sorry," he scratches his head. "Sorry, it still kind of. I feel like. Like lagging in a video game."

"So, let's tell another story. Like. What if we were from different countries? And I'm attracted to you, but we don't even speak the same language. Who would learn the other person's language so we could get by?"

"Well, shit. I mean. You. You speak Latin, at least. And a smattering of other things. You'd pick up my language faster. You know, because I don't shut up and I repeat myself a lot." Chuck's hand wanders up and flattens out Sam's palm where it sits atop the sheets. He follows the lines there with one finger. "What if you still had powers? What if you had gotten to the point where you could just pick up thoughts and mind-read? I wonder what it would be like for you to see what the literal definition of 'scatterbrained' looks like."

"I do wonder what it looks like. I. Um. Dean mentioned something else. You know. It might help for you to," he shrugs, "study up on psychology some. Build a memory palace to store things. That kinda... stuff. I mean. It might help."

"I have a memory hallway," Chuck says, like it's obvious.

He considers this. Stops Chuck's finger by closing it in his hand. "Hallway?"

"There are doors and a hallway and sometimes the doors are open and. That's not good. I like those to stay shut. Some are just closets. But a lot of them are rooms. A lot of them don't have lights on inside. A lot of them are. A lot of them are filled with." He flattens Sam's hand out again. "A lot of them have too much in them. I don't like it when doors open. One quiet hallway. It's not interesting, but I like to know that everything's accounted for."

As much as he needs to know this, it can't happen right now. Chuck's still hanging on to the ledge. He's got a leg up and he's trying to come back.

But if one of the 'rooms' in that 'hallway' spills open when he's trying to come back, what if it acted like an avalanche? Just buried him deeper.

Okay. "You'll have to tell me more, later. Let's not mess with it right now. I wanna hear you talk about it. I do. But we're gonna be careful with it. We'll get better at this. We're gonna save your brain from having this happen so often. And." He shrugs. "We'll try. We'll put in the work."

Chuck frowns. Tries to start saying something. Has to stop and reassess. "You know that feeling when. Well. I guess you don't. _I_ get this feeling a lot of the time when you're kissing me. Just of your mouth and how honest and real it is and I want to keep going because you treat me like something." He pauses. "Significant. You're never... light about it. You're never just passing through or trying to move on to something else. And when I can't kiss you I feel like _before_. Like if I can't just show you I can be half-decent at kissing, you'll find someone who returns exactly what you give. And it's so much. It's so much. I hate missing out."

"Chuck," he says into the silence without knowing what else to say.

"I know why it has to be like this when I lose track of everything. I know. I understand where you're coming from and how you have to be careful. It's just that it's only been hours and I already miss it. Because I want to pull you down into this really long kiss right now." He turns and winces. "And your face is _right there_. And I love every angle and shadow and crease in your face. I miss your face." He reaches up and takes Sam in both hands.

They stare and it's.  
Shit.

Close. Dangerous. With Sam hearing this and Chuck _sad_ and visibly wanting it so badly.

Chuck turns himself closer. "It's me. I promise." He breathes too-close for too-long and Sam swallows an inhale of him on every breath.

If it weren't for the way Chuck's eyes still aren't following movement properly. Still aren't reacting correctly to the light.

He's almost there. And he's never tripped backwards and sunk deeper before.

And. He's almost there. He really is.

Sam gets this good-tight twist in his belly. Like before. Like every time he thought they might kiss. Like every time he wanted to.

"God, I miss you."

That makes it worse.  
Means he doesn't move, doesn't stop it when Chuck presses on his shoulders and straddles him.

"Fuck," Sam says, gripping the sheets.

And when Chuck looks down to his hands--

His eyes go wide and he backs the hell up.

Gasps like he was being held down in water and crawls back to the other side of the bed. 

Presses his hand over his mouth. Says behind it: "I am so fucking sorry."

Sam isn't.

If he can't have Chuck on him, he can damn well indulge in sexual tension.

He wasn't even looking at him right but it was still Chuck and his fierce hands and his little body and his breaths and this incredible measure of _want_ fed by memories of them together. Just the idea of how they kiss and how Chuck has apparently come to _lust_ after it.

He licks his lips. "Hey. Don't worry about it. It's completely, completely fine. I just. Need to go jerk off for once instead of waiting for you," he laughs. "You understand."

Chuck slumps, drops his hand.  
"Uh. Yeah. Yeah, I hear that shit."

The day isn't a total loss. It gives Sam a brilliant idea. He implements it the next morning. When Chuck is fully awake and aware.

Mutual masturbation.  
Until the pressure ratchets too high and they fall on each other like a goddamn plane crash.

«»

A couple days later, Sam wakes to Chuck holding his fingers. Slowly flattening them against his chest, then curling them around his own. He takes his hand back to engulf Chuck's. The window above him is tempting - he could stare up at the morning sky without moving a limb, but Chuck is also right here and he's beautiful in the dawn light. Beautiful in their apartment, under their window.

He "hmm"s, small and pleased. "Your hand is bigger than my head." He uses his other hand to pet Sam's knuckles. "I love it so much."

"Aww. Thanks."

Chuck stretches and curls under the sheets. "Will you start the coffee? Please?"

"Sure. Will you make those weird eggs with all the salsa?"

"'Kay."

Sam gathers his hands to rub warmth into them and kiss them pressed flat. Leans to kiss his face and palm his hip and then climb out over him.

Chuck takes a while so Sam sits at the table, leaning, watching out the big window.

He hears the water a few times, then Chuck comes out, huddled in yesterday's clothes, hands under the sleeves of his hoodie. He circles the table but comes to Sam's side and pins him to the chair, gets up in his lap to kiss him.

"You brushed your teeth. I feel gross, sorry." He adjusts his hold to keep Chuck stable.

"It's okay. I wanted to climb you and kiss you again."

Yeah. He knows. He's glad Chuck did. He wasn't even thinking about it. He could quite literally do this every morning. It's his favorite breakfast routine.

"If I didn't do this, were you ever gonna let yourself kiss me?" he cocks his head in genuine curiosity.

Sam clears his throat and gets a better handle on Chuck's butt and his back. "Maybe someday. If you were really broadcasting that you were ready. I mean. You never really even told me you were bi. I was-- there were a lot of awkward questions I had to work into casual conversation, first," he shrugs.

"So basically you were gonna wait until you ran out of self-control."

"That... probably would have happened, first, yeah."

Chuck nods and thinks about it and nods some more. Then he takes Sam's head in his hands and kisses him for a while longer. Sam remembers how good this felt the first time. A total release. And then there was Chuck letting himself be held and steadied and that was just mind-blowing. That was the intense part. He'd let Sam hold him close, before, and hug him and maybe it was never casual but this was even more amazing. It was Chuck putting himself in a position just perched atop Sam and if Sam didn't steady him, he wouldn't have been able to stay on his own.

They're in each other's hands like this.

He wants his life to belong here. He has so many fantasies that start this way, now. Sometimes it's just fantasies where Chuck sits down on him and _says stuff_. Like it doesn't even have to be completely sexual.

Sam has this one fantasy that starts off with Chuck sleeping in his lap and waking up in his lap and saying, 'You always do such a good job, Sammy. You always make sure I feel loved,' and just descends into a riot of utterly laughable fluff from there.

Sometimes he's the one talking in his fantasies. Saying things he's still too unsure to voice aloud.

He pulls Chuck tighter when they stop to breathe against each other. Beyond Chuck, clouds are skimming in early to cover up a bright morning. "It's gonna rain. Let's eat and go get groceries and then stay inside the rest of the day," he whispers like a secret.

"Okay."

"You can read more of the text to me."

"Call me by my new name," he says into Sam's mouth.

"Fiancé." It gets him kissed and clung to.

"Let me carry something for you," Chuck requests.

And Sam doesn't get it. "Carry?"

"Tell me something you're worried about. So you can let me carry it and I can feel you relax while I'm here," he tries to massage his thumbs into Sam's shoulders. "I promise I won't break you. Let me carry something. You already do so much work, Sammy."

Christ. This isn't far off from one of those fantasies.

He closes his eyes and noses into Chuck's neck. Okay. "I'm worried I can't keep my soul or my head clear enough to be bound to you." He exhales.

It's a moment before Chuck presses his smiling mouth to Sam's head. "Okay. See? That's not even a big deal. Because, when we go get the next boxes, I can just ask Cas to check on your whole shine and he'll tell me you're perfectly clear. That's not really something you have to worry about."

"You. He can't just tell you that?"

Chuck presses his mouth to Sam's ear. "I've seen your soul. I've seen angels look into you and watched how you radiate. I know what you're made up of. And Cas would know if he needed to worry about any of us because he could squint through us and look for what's wrong." Chuck kisses his ear and pulls back. "He doesn't have to look for it in Dean. Dean's whole existence just kinda _leans_ in his direction when he's around. It's like grace gravity."

"Well you-" Sam sputters. "You can't just ask that, though?"

Chuck shrugs like, _you'd think so but whatever_.

How can it always be this easy?? It's fucking wild.

All he ever has to do anymore is say when something bothers him, out loud, and pieces of it fall away, burn up. Every burden disintegrates if he just hands it over to Chuck.

"You're like a spiritual papershredder," Sam marvels.

Chuck frowns like that bums him out.

"No! No, it's amazing! I don't know how you do it?? I just." He reaches for a simple problem. Something that's been bugging him so long it feels like it's seeping poison, but he has no answer for. "I'm afraid to call Kevin Tran's mom. It's been forever and we haven't checked on her but Kevin died-- it was. We didn't protect him enough. He died on our watch. Gad- Gadreel was- and I-" he stammers.

Chuck looks increasingly worried and stops him after he says 'Gadreel,' puts a hand over his mouth. "Stop, stop. It's okay. We've been over this before: it wasn't you. There was nothing you could do. You're okay." He pets Sam's head and hangs around his neck when Sam yanks him in. "We have to make sure she's okay. We can call and see if she's around? We could swing by together."

"What if-- Kevin may be clinging to her. We don't know if he left yet. I don't wanna bother her and I'm responsible for-"

"You're not. And if she thinks that you are in some tenuous way, then we point out that I could be the reason Kevin died just as much as anybody. If I hadn't wrecked my truck while drunk driving, her son may never have been tapped."

" _No_ ," Sam grips him hard and flat-out fucking denies.

"If you're responsible when you weren't even in control of yourself, then I'm responsible for not saving other prophets from the same torture I went through."

"That's bullshit!"

Chuck pulls back, "Then we're both full of it and we just need to suck it up and make the call. What else?" he presses.

Sam just sits there, dumbfounded, clutching his person and coming to the realization that he was desperately lost in this mess of a world and he didn't know it.

"C'mon," Chuck rattles him. "I think I know what you mean, now. What else needs shredding?"

"I don't know. A zillion things."

"Well. Hope I'm still under warranty." He shakes his head. "Sorry, that was lame. What I mean is,... okay. I'm ready when you are. You don't have to carry all these things." He palms Sam's face after a quiet while. "Okay?"

"Wow."

"I'll... take that as a yes? Are you hungry?"

"Geeze," he's still reeling.

"Sam."

When Sam finally focuses on him, he's melting.

"Still wanna marry me?" he grins.

"More and more," Sam sighs. "I feel like this is real simple shit but I've been avoiding it."

"You had to _set it aside_ because you needed help carrying it," Chuck insists. "It's okay to need help."

"You had to help me with figuring that out, too, didn't you? You actually can't even stop helping me."

"Sam," he says, suddenly more serious than Sam's ever seen him, "you think highly of me, but I do represent a complication in your life. You picked me up and took me anyway. I do complicate things," he stops Sam before he can object. "So the least I can do is straighten out the rest. I'm not even that great at it, I mean. If you consider my personal life? But yours I have a wider view of. And I want - just _so fucking much_ \- for life to be easier for you every day, in every way possible. I want you happy because you deserve it. You've given plenty. You should _get_ sometimes. Get stuff handed to you."

"Who says?" he asks kind of dazed.

Chuck shrugs. "The people who love you. Mostly me. I know better than anyone."

Chuck gives him another quiet minute to process. Then he says, "Kiss me again."

Sam does, soft and earnest.

"Do you still want eggs?"

Sam nods.

"Eggs, coffee. Shower, clothes. Groceries, back home," he lists off. "We'll call Mrs. Tran when we get back and decide what to do after that. We'll get the work out of the way and spend the rest of the day on our ceremony. Okay?"

"Do you really love me this much?" he boggles.

"Sam. All that love and all that care and all that friendship and all that help - all those heaps and heaps you think you're undeserving of?"

Sam can only nod.

"You were just missing it 'cause I wasn't around. Sorry I showed up so late." He plants one more kiss on him and doesn't let him tread water anymore. "Time for food. Come on. Will you doctor my coffee up while I cook?"

"Yeah."

He stops Chuck one more time because he's never, ever going to tire of it. He says, "Please?"

Only, unlike the first time Chuck climbed him and he asked that, there's breakfast. And sex. And no leaving him ever. _Not today, not today_. And not any of the days after.

«»

Chuck sits with him when he calls Mrs. Tran.

He tries to, anyway, though Sam ends up pacing nervously around the couch.

He has to use a number she wouldn't be familiar with (he had to dump that number several months ago), so she doesn't pick up and he has to leave a message. He's a coward, so he throws Dean's number in there, too, in case she'd prefer to speak with someone who didn't burn her son alive.

He leaves the message, just wanting to know if all's well, and then he sits and waits on the couch. Chuck tries to get him to go over the points he wants to cover - he wants to make sure Kevin moved on, and he wants to put her in contact with Jody.

But it's all pretty anticlimactic.

Dean calls. "Heya, Sammy. Mrs. Tran called me?"

He blows out a breath. "Yeah. I didn't know if she-"

"She's fine. But, uh. She doesn't- I have a feeling she doesn't want us coming around _forcing_ Kevin to move on. She just said she'd moved out to live with her sister in San Fran. But. Kinda felt like misdirection."

"Shit. Goddamnit. Did you at least tell her- _warn her_ what could happen if-"

"She's got it," Dean says, clearly unhappy. "I got a feeling she's never gonna make that call, though. When one of em holds on tight, sometimes the living hold right back."

Ugh.  
He hopes Kevin is smart enough not to do anything to his mother.

Even Bobby picked up a dangerous amount of rage - and he knew it was coming.

"What do you wanna do?" he asks.

"I don't think we're smart enough to catch up to her, Sammy. I think we might have to make sure she knows we're here, just in case. But we can't save someone with no interest in being saved. Not when." Dean sighs. "Not when we were the ones who."

Dean can't finish it aloud. Sam wouldn't be able to, either.

"Hey. Can, um. Can I come see your dumb apartment?" Dean asks. "Then I'll take you up to Bobby's so I can make some decisions on the layout."

"Oh. Um. Sure. Did Cas finish the muffliato thing so I can install it?"

"Yeah. Yeah I got two of em for you. I can bring up some screwdrivers and we can handle that real quick."

"Then, um. Come on up, sure. Tomorrow?"

"Yeah. I-" he says something away from the phone- "Hey, Claire wants to come bug Chuck while we're working."

Sam laughs, "Hold on a sec," he turns to haul Chuck back against himself. "Dean and I are gonna work on some plans for the house tomorrow. Would you be okay here with Claire for the day?"

Chuck is curious but shrugs and nods.

"'Kay," he tells Dean. "But bring up the Colt, it's my turn."

Dean grumbles but agrees and they settle on sometime post-breakfast.

Then he hangs up and explains everything.

Chuck thinks for a moment. "You sure it wouldn't be a good idea to track Mrs. Tran down?" he checks.

Sam shakes his head. "We don't hunt our friends if we can help it."

«»

Sam installs a muffliato lock on the bedroom door while Dean does the front door without attracting attention.

It doesn't result in 100% pure silence and Sam thinks that must have something to do with the walls being interrupted by windows, unlike in the bunker. But it mutes a full-blast television significantly outside both doors. Reduces any chaos to a very faint noise.

He reports his findings to Charlie via text as him and Dean drive north.

Dean elbows him. "I owe you that because I just made it possible for you to fuck all wild and not have the neighbors complain."

"Yeah, thanks," Sam laughs.

"Stop texting him, Claire won't kill him."

"I wasn't. I was reporting to our fearless leader."

"Speaking of which," Dean nods, "she's got her guy delivering my blueprints and plans like _the day after_ I get these final measurements out to him. She's got a serious hookup, here. He even dug up all the paperwork I'll need to submit permits and filled half of it out already. Guy's good."

"We're doing this by permit?"

"Have to, at least some of it. When the work is inspected and we're given the all-clear, I can start making the place into a luxury zombie apocalypse safe house."

Dean isn't laughing at Chuck over this. He's genuinely excited.

Amazing. He's just... thrilled.

At least on some level, this really is making Dean happy.

It's a relief Sam didn't expect to feel today.

They enter the property slowly once Sam has opened the gate.

Dean hasn't seen it stripped bare like this yet.

He gets sad about it. He just can't hold it back.

The last time they were here to nab Crowley he was angry to see the place so neglected.

Now he's just--  
It's just not the same.

He kicks at some stray garbage and into a pile of ash that used to be a bush outside the house.

Sam rattles him by the shoulder.

He's choked up for a different reason. "Gonna help me build a house here? So I can grow out my stupid hair?"

Dean nods.

They move around the fence, survey most the ground.

"We got the shovels in the car. We should start hauling away the rest. They got rid of a lot, but we're still gonna fill a dumpster here." Dean nods to the-- what _used to be_ the basement. Still an awful, twisted, blackened pit.

"Lets buy a buncha tools. Let's get a few tarps and we can gather shit, dump it in someone else's trash. Then I can figure out what I need. We come back when we have the plans."

Sam nods. "We, um. We need to dig up Bobby's dad. He's buried out here."

Dean blows out a breath. "I sometimes cannot believe it was an average, human weapon that took that old bastard out. Always figured Bobby would be burying the rest of the world."

"Including us," Sam nods.

"Well. He did that once or twice."

«»

Sam has zero energy to deal with Claire when he gets home. And it looks like she's sapped everything out of Chuck, too.

He glares up through his glasses when Sam walks in.

Claire seems to be losing to Chuck at some kind of video game. Sam thumbs at the hall. "Your ride's leaving, Flipper."

"AAARGH. I've almost got him!!"

"No you don't," Chuck says with dead certainty.

"Claire," he's not gonna put up with yelling in their house. "Dean. Downstairs. Go."

"Fucking... whatever..." She gives one last war cry and then takes it straight to the teeth, obvious fatality splattered across her half of the screen.

She throws her controller and leaps up off the floor. "Whatever!! Fine!! Fuck you, Chuck. See you later, Sam."

She leaves and takes all her noise with her.

Sam closes the door.

Chuck puts his controller on the floor next to himself and falls back, lays down, spreads out. Stretches and groans.

Sam washes his hands in the kitchen then comes back around to step to either side of him and sink down on top of him.

"I'm so lucky you can't make babies." Chuck laughs but it's true. Sam would be knocking him up left and right like he doesn't even remember what a pain in the ass kids can be. "How's your head?"

"Just tired. She's... a little loud."

"I noticed. I'm sorry. We can be quiet, now. Come shower with me."

"Trying for babies anyway?"

"Pretty much," he pulls his hands down Chuck's body to just _feel him_. Moves his work-worn hands down Chuck's familiar shape.

"Mm. How's the house? Move-in ready?"

"If you feel like moving into one of the trees out back, yeah," he almost falls on top of Chuck, kissing him.

He helps hold Sam up, shoves him some until he's got his elbows back under him and then.

Sam doesn't know what happens. They focus on each other and for some reason it's like somebody pinned them together and left them to their own little bubble. Shell.

It's quiet and they're staring. Then they're _surging_ together, breathless and desperate. Chuck's hands dive for his pants and yank them open, impatient on his belt and almost rip his zipper down. He climbs Sam from right where he is and Sam takes him. Gets up, turns and pins him to the wall. Uncomfortable grind of his cock against Chuck's jeans until he can free up a hand to open his pants and, _fuck yes_ , trap their dicks together and get some friction. His own pants collapse to his ankles and he so _wants_ to fuck his fiancé up against the various surfaces of the room.

Chuck is soundless except for heavy breaths and gasps. He wishes Chuck would twist the fist that's anchored in his hair.

It's pure lust-haze and Sam is the only one who occasionally shouts out into Chuck's mouth.

His fucking phone rings.

He kicks his pants away and pins Chuck to the wall to dump his jacket and shirt and then he grabs him back up to take him to the bedroom and shut the ring of the phone out.

They fuck for... it isn't long. They're exhausted and it's unusually desperate and intense. Sam ends up above him trying to find his breath somewhere in Chuck's very near atmosphere. He's fucking obsessed. He wants this, every little piece of this person. Coming home to him is like Sandalphon every damn time. Like when he skidded up to the garage of that empty home and snapped Chuck out of Dean and Cas's hands.

He didn't win the day. He didn't destroy the bad guy. He didn't really save anybody. Chuck was a mess. Sam was so sure he'd lost someone for the last fucking time. He thought his heart was gonna collapse for sure and he wouldn't ever find someone to kiss again. He was ready to break his own fists on that angel. He wanted to murder him without the blade. Sam wanted to be sharp enough to do it himself.

The come-down from an anger-high like that is more violent than any drug he tried when he was attempting to drown hallucinations of Lucifer out. Worse than the height of demon blood coursing through him.

But after Sandalphon he had Chuck to catch him at the bottom of this roller-coaster death-drop. His hands were shaking and damaged so badly they were nearly useless, but the way his body trusted Sam-- Chuck caught Sam, anyway. Chuck came out of that torture _loving_ him.

He's so unworthy of this little body. These breaths and these eyes and the soft fingertips skidding against him.

He leans into Chuck's lips and they _open and press_ for him.

He did not earn this. He is fucking holding on for dear life, anyway. They won't be able to pry him off. 

"I wanna sleep inside of you," he says, not even making sense to himself.

Chuck only blinks, curious. "Not sure how that would work."

"I'll settle for makeouts and being the little spoon."

"Okay. You wanna shower, first?" he has such infinite patience. He just draws his hands down Sam's back slow and steady, again and again.

"Yeah. I think I messed up the sheets enough."

"Do you need me to hold still?"

"Yes. I've got it." He can move them both to the bathroom, himself.

Chuck winces, standing, and Sam knows which leg he did a number on. Massages it for a minute before turning to get the water to the right temperature.

He gathers his clothes from the other room, after, and his phone rings right there in his hand. Dean.

"Been calling."

"Been showering and ignoring you."

"I have to come get you guys. We got a case. Claire and I stopped for pie but we're heading back."

Sam knocks the end of the cellphone against his own head. Ugh.

He packs when all he wants to do is plant himself back inside his significant other and fuck him to sleep.

Chuck isn't allowed to help so he just lounges there across the foot of the bed and makes tight little rolls out of their shirts and waits for kisses to descend down on him.

Sometimes Sam kisses his bent knees, over his jeans, and Chuck just says, "Yeah. I know."

«»

Sam is having a harder time sleeping on cases. Not in bed, when he's supposed to. That's the part that's getting easier. Just when it's his turn to take the back seat as Dean watches a vacant lot for a suspect. That kind of thing. When they're actively working the case.

Wherever they stay, double beds are out of the fucking question. He made Chuck get back in the car and upgraded from a motel to an inn because the motel didn't have a bed he could fit in with his fiancé. He didn't tell that to Dean -- he claimed there was no vacancy and they met a few blocks over. But Dean probably would have been fine with it considering him and Cas.

It's getting harder to sleep away from Chuck. He's already lost his desire for alone-time. Brother-time is okay but it's one Chuck short of perfect.

He's spent _so fucking long_ alone or as-good-as. So long looking for this. The diner they eat at for dinner smells so badly of ancient grease that it gives him a headache. He's got someone to whine to. Someone who drops what he's doing and sits him down. Pets his neck and waits with him for the Tylenol to kick in.

Someone does all these zillion little things with him. Having it now, it's hard to give it up.

"I'm a total pansy," he marvels to realize it. Chuck just keeps petting him.

"If your brain hurts, it makes you a slightly-less-lethal killing machine. We can't have that," he shrugs.

"So I'm not a pansy?"

"If you are, you're a beautiful flower crown and you're only mine," Chuck says, a little sing-songy. "And outside our room you're a Winchester killing machine, protecting the world. Did somebody tell you that you can't be a pansy and a horrorshow at the same time?" he gives Sam a really sappy look. "You can be whatever feels right. I'm pretty sure you're just 'Sam'."

Likewise, thankfully, Chuck stays awake until Sam's return. Nap time doesn't count - he tries not to settle down for a full night's sleep without Sam, but afternoon naps will happen regardless.

For his part, aside from when he wants his own look at the suspect or the crime scene (and he generally doesn't), Sam can find Chuck pretty much where he left him.

He gets anxious about being away too long, so the others have offered to check on Chuck for him. They will bring food, too. Claire decided she always had to have "an offering" so, when she returns to base, she's got candy to share or she's making the coffee delivery. She doesn't really buy stuff for Chuck, she shares, and that's good to know. It's nice for Sam to know that someone likes him that much.

Krissy doesn't understand why Claire started that but she didn't bring anything once when they stopped to check in and, later in the hunt, she took a shovel to the back of the head. So now she brings bottled coffees, like Charlie. It seems to have been built into a superstitious thing.

Dean brings full meals back for Chuck. He has decided that's his job. Leftovers and all the spare food end up in their fridge. The one in Dean and Cas's room is generally for beer. The others for soda.

Claire told Cas that he _had to_ bring something, so Cas is the only one who calls first and picks up what Chuck actually _needs_. Cas can also be persuaded to trade places and send Sam, instead, if that's what Chuck needs.

Chuck isn't den mother for the away team. He's just an information hub. He usually stays in one place, so people know where to find him. And, since everyone stops by with "offerings" or to pick up or drop off new notes, pictures, evidence, etc., they can leave messages for each other and have one central point to assemble the puzzle pieces of a case. If you find Charlie in the room with him, something big is going down and everyone needs to gather to be redirected.

The door stays open unless he's sleeping. If Chuck is on his laptop typing, everyone knows by now that they have to wait until he looks up. He gets pissed when people interrupt his sentences and make him lose words. He's been known to fucking throw things. Cas once dodged a spell tome that would have been deadly accurate if he weren't quite as fast as he is. Dean witnessed it and so, now, he knows his fucking place. When Chuck's ready to give you his attention, you'll get it.

You don't interrupt sentences.

Since the door stays open, Sam keeps a Remington under the pillow closest to the door and Chuck has a laptop bag with a perfect compartment for his angel blade. It goes everywhere with him, now. Sam still hasn't strapped a gun to him and he knows that he sees the blade on Chuck more often as a concession to their ongoing debate.

If Sam is being overly cautious and wants the door closed, there's a knock that the rest of the family use and Sam's own code to knock out on the door. But he often finds Chuck sharing space with other people. He even texted, once, when Sam and Cas were scouring the woods, that he woke up from a nap to find that Dean had come through the connecting door and was watching a kung-fu movie with the sound low, sitting on the end of their bed just waiting for him to wake up.

He texted Sam a play-by-play as Dean waited for him to get dressed, get his shoes, lock up the room, then Dean took him to buy Slurpees and dropped him back off at the motel again.

It weirded Chuck out, but it made Sam very happy.

Sam is the one who always needs company, always needs to be touched. He used to just sit by himself and be distant and forlorn, thinking he had to wait for Chuck to be ready to touch him. Then he realized that he's allowed what Chuck can't stand from others. Chuck is growing into his place in their wider family, but some things are just a part of him that likely won't change except where it's necessary to accommodate Sam.

They've been learning each other, so now Sam knows when he has to warn Chuck that touch is coming and, conversely, when Chuck would be fine with it. And Chuck has learned that Sam wants him to offer more. Especially when he's stressed or losing his temper. Sam wants a solid, reassuring touch sometimes to ground him again. It's working by bits on Sam's anger like Sam's presence and the talking are working by bits to anchor Chuck when he's getting swept under memories.

So Sam is usually the one who asks for hugs. He wants the handholding in public. He wants to tangle their legs under tables. He wants to be pressed all together in private. He asks if he can be inside of Chuck. He'll take up Chuck's arm and press his hand to the side of his neck until their pulses match if he's trying to come down from an intense hunt or a panic situation.

Chuck has decided to be ready for Sam to come back and need his palms. His mouth. His arms and legs. His body. Sam has noticed. Chuck seems to want to be ready when he's needed. He seems to be getting into it in a big way. He's ready when Sam is too-too ready for him. He's adjusting to the close little life that Sam is so glad to have found himself in.

Chuck can nap without Sam, but it's getting late and he wanders over to Charlie's room where half of them are still up making calls and hacking into video feeds. He follows Sam as he wanders out to the parking lot on the phone. When Sam finally hangs up, Chuck stretches his sleeves over his hands and crosses his arms over his chest. "Um. Can I have a hug?" he asks quietly.

Sam must look taken aback because he keeps babbling.

"Sorry. I know that sounds more like you than me. I swear I'm not mocking you. I, like, seriously need a hug. I just- I-I- can't get to sleep. And maybe. I donno. I should help you guys, instead? Since I'm up anyway?" He shrugs. "What do you think?"

Sam pockets his phone and leans down and scoops Chuck into his arms. Makes him loosen up and hug back and clutch tight.

Sam hangs on for a long while, until Chuck yawns, then Sam picks him up and takes him back to their room. He lays him out, then goes next door to announce that he needs a break. Cas starts protesting, but he didn't ask if he could go - he stated that he was going.

He frowns, when he comes back, to see Chuck still awake and blinking at the ceiling. "Yeah, see, I didn't think that would be enough." He locks the door and kicks his shoes off. Then holds Chuck in the bed.

This should be a new rule. He wants to drop everything when it's finally time for Chuck to crash. Even if he can get to sleep without him for the most part, it's important to Sam that Chuck can still sleep properly. He closes the door when Chuck naps, and sometimes he stays to sleep too, but if the hunt is advancing hourly, he'll creep out after Chuck drops off.

Now that everyone knows they're getting married, they seem to think it's cute to call them names and shoo them away to go make kissyfaces elsewhere. Instead of rolling their eyes, maybe they should take these opportunities to be alone and focus on making their relationship healthier. To talk and sleep and, yeah, sometimes have sex.

He doesn't say so because it's probably not really feasible. But it might help Sam in getting over a rather massive doubt that's been creeping in, lately: he keeps asking himself, _What if I don't know how to be a husband?_

The next day, when Sam stares across the room at him and deflates and actually asks that aloud, Chuck slouches, too. He tosses the wet towel over the rack and clacks off the bathroom light.

He comes to stand between Sam's knees. "Can you hug me, please?"

Sam rises to do it properly. To tower over and envelop him. "I think you're gonna be a great husband," he whispers up to Sam after a while.

"You know what I'm really concerned about? That I might do it right at first but it'll eventually make me that kind of inattentive football, tv-hog, asking you when dinner's ready kind of husband. Like you always talk about your dad being. Like a sitcom trashbag."

"You think you're gonna, like, let yourself go? Are you trying to tell me you were only maintaining this bod to be attractive and lure someone in and you intend to grow a beer gut as soon as the wedding is over?"

Sam doesn't laugh with him but admits, "Yeah, I guess that does sound dumb."

It's a productive hunt. They go back home a little more sure of their place on the road - and just as grateful to be off it again.

«»

They're at the apartment for three days. They manage to get the last of the furniture and kitchen stuff they wanted and Chuck even figures out how to turn the goddamn broiler on.

They finish reading the notes and the text together. Chuck has officially held his hand through everything he has and it's Sam's turn to attack the spellwork for their marriage on his own, at last.

Chuck goes back to writing sports stuff for a while. He doesn't make it obvious that's what he's doing, but Sam thinks he may be earning more money for wedding things. Rings or presents or… fuck it, a honeymoon? He doesn't know. And he decides not to ask. He decides that he has plenty of his own work to be doing.

Dean gives him frequent updates on the house plans. Since the hunt interrupted his timeline, he wasn't able to get his information to Charlie's contact as soon as he'd hoped. The guy had to work another deadline, but Dean texts as soon as he's got the plans in hand, fresh from the print shop he made the run to in Topeka.

Sam puts his phone down before he messages back. "Hey. Dean's gonna come back up, tomorrow. That okay?"

Chuck circles back with his mug in hand. Sits down and sighs big. "Sam. Please don't start asking me if it's okay to hang out with your brother. You don't need my permission, I'm totally okay with it. That's something we're not gonna do. I know how high Dean and me both rank, okay? You're just gonna warn me when he's coming by so I'll know to have pants on. And. You know. Not try to be getting into _yours_."

Huh. That hadn't really been where he was going with the question, but. Good to know.

"He's too big of a part of your life for you to feel like you need to check with me. That's a thing I get, okay? So. Yeah. Fine. Are you going up? To S-D?"

"Yeah. He's-- well, you might want to come. He's gotta show me the final plans before we clear the last of the crap out and start plotting it and deciding if trees need to be moved or whatever. Last few steps before we really start. It won't be a point-of-no-return as far as the plans are laid, but it's big."

Chuck nods and sips his coffee. "Um. I think I'll hang back."

Sam assesses him for a minute. "This is our house we're talking about."

"I know that," he shrugs. "And I know that I've given all the input I really can. And I know I'll look at some damn blueprints like I looked at the insides of the pig and the frog in biology class. I just don't understand the guts of things when I look at them. Assembled? Yeah. Guts? No. You can put me to work and -- don't get me wrong, I plan to be useful. I do, I won't fuck this up," he says in earnest, "but you're going to have to tell me, 'look, I need this cut into four-inch pieces' or whatever. Specific instructions. Step-by-step. I can get a view of things overall and I can do numbers. Constructing the pieces on my own or, say, _envisioning_ what components are supposed to end up looking like? Not my strong suit. I want to help, but I want to be there for the parts I know I can help with. In the meantime," he says, making a point, "you and Dean have Sam-and-Dean time. You've got plenty of it, still. That doesn't have to go away. You guys are important to each other. There are gonna have to be swathes of time you have to spend away from me so you feel normal. You may not get that," he says before Sam can protest, "but I know. I just. I just _know_ that, Sam. One of the advantages of being me," he taps his own head. "I'll be able to tell when you need that before you need it."

It makes him wanna roll his eyes and dismiss what Chuck's saying. It makes him want to prove that he can deal without it.

And that impulse, itself, makes him sit back and ask himself if Chuck is right - because he so often is.

He feels anything but _normal_ when he's with Dean. But he has to admit that, by now, it marks a kind of normality in his life to feel that way.

Mostly, he just doesn't want Chuck to feel that way. Like there are pieces of Sam's life that don't require him. He wants Chuck to feel like he belongs everywhere.

However. The invitation is open. He just said as much. He asked if Chuck was going, he said that this is their house and he should probably be a part of the process.

And Chuck said this part of the process won't make any sense to him.

So, okay. Maybe he still needs brother time.  
Maybe he'll come home at the end of it, like he does when they're hunting, and he'll hold Chuck close and it will feel intense because he missed him. Because he didn't have access to him.

Some absence-makes-the-heart-grow-fonder stuff.

Sam remembers thinking that way when he'd separate from Chuck, before. When they weren't together yet and he didn't know if they would be. Or if his absence was even making Chuck grow fonder or simply sparing Chuck his company.

"Swear to me," he has to catch up with his own words. Decides to say them anyway. "Swear to me that if you ever need me, you won't let that get in the way. I know you understand how much I need Dean, but that should never, ever get in the way of me being with you when you need it. Promise you'll actually stop me and pull me back. Promise me you won't even let me walk out of the room if you don't feel like you can sleep with the lights off."

He didn't mean to say that. And he can see when Chuck's mind turns to the same place his just slipped off to.

After all, Chuck saw.

Chuck knows exactly what kind of fear Jess died in because. He saw it happen. He saw her invite Brady in. He saw Brady kill her and pin her to the ceiling and set her insides burning like a timebomb.

When Sam told him everything - _everything_ everything - because he _had to_.  
Chuck owned up to knowing.

He asked if Sam wanted to talk about what he knew. Wanted to be told what he saw.

And Sam decided that he did.  
But then he stopped Chuck.  
Because he couldn't fucking handle it.

So this? He needs.

Chuck agrees. He nods and he says, "I promise." He doesn't make a self-deprecating joke about not being brave in the first place. He takes it seriously. Because he fears pain and he fears fear. He can handle them, which is not a joke at all. He's stronger than Sam probably even knows yet.

But he saw Sam blame himself for what he thought might have happened - he thought that he let Jess die alone, in pain, afraid.

And Chuck didn't tell him when he asked him not to elaborate. But he's pretty sure Jess did die _alone, in pain, and afraid_.

Sam needs to feel like that won't have a chance of happening here.

"I promise," he says again, and takes Sam's hand on the tabletop. "Now you have to promise me that you understand I won't float away if you aren't with me 24/7. Do you promise?"

Sam nods.

«»

They clear the ground under the cover of the maintenance bay, and that's the last of it for now.

Sam drags off one more broken post and returns to see Dean unrolling plans. Setting stones out on the corners of the pages to keep them flat.

Everything they agreed on. All Sam could think of that he would need. Dean sounds almost nervous about it when he actually _apologizes_ for not having something sketched out for the surrounding yard or the workshop. Like Doc Brown explaining his intricate little model isn't to scale.

Sam grins and crouches with him. Pats him on the back. "It's good, Dean. It's amazing. We need the house, first, anyway. Everything else can be done after," he assures him.

Dean clears his throat. "Okay. So. You said kitchen." Dean taps a page and explains the dimensions, the way there will be windows facing east and south. He moves into the next room and the hall, his fingers tracing, and Sam starts getting the picture.

"It's um. Bigger than I thought."

"Well, yeah. It's bigger than Bobby's house was. We got more people."

Sam sighs and moves to sit on the ground. "Dean. You know how Chuck feels about-"

"Yeah. I know. And that's okay. Because the guest rooms are downstairs and they're mostly gonna be library space that can fit couches and cots. I figure," he shrugs, "the workshop's gotta be more of a guest house than the actual house. Okay? I get it, I do. But if the bunker has to be evacuated for some reason," he rolls his hand like, _you follow?_

"Yeah. I know, I do. I just. I told him we wouldn't put ourselves in the position of inviting-- I just. Dean. This is. I know how you feel, but me and him-"

"You think I don't know how you feel?" Dean challenges. "Sammy, I get it, I do. Much as it doesn't really make sense to me, I get that you're not a-" he shifts. Doesn't like how he's phrasing it. "I know you're not trying to play uncle, here. I know neither of you want the kids to think you're trying to step in for their dads, alright? I get that. I just need you to have space for your huge body," he flicks him on the shoulder, "and the possibility that someone might have to hide out with you every once in a while. I mean, this makes the place big enough that Chuck will have plenty of room to hide from any of your fucking guests, okay?"

Sam considers. "What about the basement and the panic room?"

Dean puts up a finger, pleased. "I need to see how the panic room looks," he thumbs over his shoulder indicating the one mess they still haven't tangled. "I assume we can just set it back up again, re-lay the wards. The basement we gotta outfit as a _full_ weapons locker because we'll actually have to make the workshop look like a workshop from the door. Which is where the actual workshop will be. In... the... uh."

"Workshop, yeah," he laughs at him.

Dean backhands his knee, "I don't live with a human thesaurus."

"But the rest of it?"

Dean nods. "The workshop will have its own attic for living space, its own basement, yadda yadda, we'll work on it. But. While we're on the subject," Dean leans to tap a page. "Your absurd bedroom and bathroom, your highness. I fucking fell out of my chair when Chuck sent me the specs on the bed and the tub. What, are you the fucking princess and the pea? And what _dude_ in the world needs a tub that big? Should we just install a fucking Olympic-regulation pool for him or what?"

Sam lifts a halting hand. "You might not wanna press for an explanation if you don't have any brain bleach handy, you delicate fucking flower," he smirks.

"Oh, gross. As soon as we paint the walls, I am never entering your sex grotto again, pal. You're on your own."

Sam shrugs.

"So, that's upstairs," Dean sighs. "Like _most of upstairs_ ," he rolls his eyes but moves on to the rest of the rooms.

"Office?" Sam stops him at one point.

"Like an office, not just a library," Dean shrugs.

Sam's dubious.

"It's not just another undercover guest room," Dean insists. "Isn't a writer supposed to have an office?"

Oh.

"See, here," he shows him. "This has got north and west facing windows. 'Cause you said he wants to write in the kitchen in the morning and that's already got east and south covered. So. Evening light." He shrugs.

Sam just stares.

"We can move rooms before-"

"No. No, that's. Wow, Dean. Thanks. That's a really good idea," he breathes, kind of amazed. "Really, thanks."

"See? I'm not cramming you guys into-"

"No, I know, Dean, I know."

He lets him move on in his explanation and, seriously, it's perfect. Dean spent a lot of time on the phone bullying Charlie's friend into delivering the perfect blueprints for his house.

Not the house that he'd want them to have, necessarily, but the one they want _and_ need. He'll go full-hunter on the workshop, no doubt, and probably a shed and a garage but... Sam's fucking _marriage home_ is going to be amazing.

Dean wouldn't deliver anything less.

«»

Charlie's already started ordering materials and Dean gripes when a couple trucks pull up but Sam isn't about to complain.

Dean explains the parts that he doesn't trust himself with so they're gonna have to shop around to contract it out. That will be coming pretty soon since he can't just pour perfect concrete on his own. He wants the foundation to be flawless to start with.

Sam volunteers to take the car and go get lunch after a while. Dean is focused, measuring out the new extent of the front porch with strings and pegs. He tosses the keys over his shoulder and Sam gets the fence for himself.

Soon this will be a gate. Massive and secure and reinforced. Because Dean is taking Chuck's concerns seriously. Because Dean wants to protect Sam's house.

On his way into town, Sam calls Chuck. And when he realizes what he's really calling for he has to pull over into the first parking lot he sees.

"Hi!" Chuck sounds excited.

"Hey, sweetheart!" he can't help but grin.

"I haven't done a goddamn thing today! Except read your primer on vampire identification. This is amazing. I mean, I'm finally getting to the part about- well. I probably shouldn't quote you to yourself. I just want you to know you're a snarky academic and I love you for it." He must put the computer aside to focus because he stops sounding as distracted. "Anyway. You're doing actual work. What's up?"

"I'm checking in. I just." He puts the car in park and cracks a window, cuts the engine.

"You're worried about something?" Chuck guesses from his voice.

"Uh-yeee-uh. I need. To tell you something," he squeezes and twists his hand on the wheel like Dean does sometimes.

"Okay. I wanna hear it," Chuck assures him.

God. He does this to Chuck entirely too much. "Um," his throat is suddenly dry. "It's been years and years and years. And I'm still like 90% sure I don't love Dean as much as I'm supposed to. I don't. I don't trust him as much as I'm supposed to. I don't know him as well as I should. I just. I can't believe what he's doing- this fucking magic that he's doing to build our house? And he just. It's so offhand. It seems so fucking natural to him. I mean, we gave him the vaguest idea and I thought we'd be going back and forth on it for weeks and, yeah, he had to make a few more realistic adjustments to what I want- what _we_ wanted. But? The rest he's just??"

"Kind of a part-time engineering genius? Sam, see, you did know that. That's why we put this in his hands. You do know that he hides how smart he is because he's always second-guessing his own education, everything he's picked up. You couldn't have shown him that you know and trust him more than by letting him take the lead on this. He knows that," Chuck insists.

"Okay. So maybe I do trust him. Maybe I do know him. What if I don't love him enough? What if he thinks I'm moving away because I don't love him and he's just letting me go?"

Chuck laughs a little. "Sammy? Please remember that Cas was the one to kick us out. He wants his time with Dean as much as I want mine with you."

"But he said we didn't have to listen to him. He said we could stay. He wanted us to stay."

"Charlie backed Cas up, Sam. Of course Dean wanted you to stay. He wants the same things just forever and ever. But new things have to happen. New is healthy, change is healthy, and Cas is gonna help him through that. Imagine if Dean really could just cancel Cas's needs out like that? It would make them both pretty unhappy. We did them a favor by taking it as an order from Charlie. This has nothing to do with whether or not you love your brother." He stops and sighs. "Do you realize all the wild shit I've seen you do to save your brother, Sam? And I only saw up to Stull. Just. Listen to me, okay? Ready?"

Sam closes his eyes and slumps in the seat. "Yeah?"

"Sam. You don't want to hear that I know how you feel from the inside. Unfortunately, I just do. I really do. You know that... unplugged feeling that you have about Dean? Until you hit one of these blocks of realization and you think too hard about everything he's done for you. And then you panic. You plug in. You think you're just tuning back in like, what did I miss? Has Dean done more and I haven't done enough in return? I know that's what you think. You think he's plugged in all the time and that you forget until it's too late. But it's never too late. You aren't, in fact, on his mind 100% of the time. You are his first consideration when he makes decisions, but he has room enough to love everyone like that. That's why he's so solid. Because if people saw what a deep thinker he was, how exhausted it makes him, they'd push in and try to comfort him and that's not what he wants. You know how you never sleep because you take up every job in the world that has to do with saving it?"

"I sleep more-"

"I know. I know. Okay? But what I'm saying is, Dean does the same thing. Only he loses sleep thinking he hasn't earned even the little broken bits of love that he's got. The thing he feels unplugged from is the work. He's blind to how much work he's done and how many people he's saved until he _doesn't_ for once and it breaks his heart."

A breath staggers out of Sam. "You're saying we're unplugged from what we do."

"Until you feel like you haven't done enough, yeah. And on a level, it's to protect yourselves and it works until it. You know. Until you crash into something and the semi overturns and just. Chickens. Running loose all over the highway."

He gusts a laugh. "Chickens?"

"Or citrus rolling away. Or. A Brinks truck with a shipment of pennies. I donno. Point is, there's a simple solution: take the toll road. Slow down every once in a while and just. Show Dean you love him. Or tell him. I can help? That's what I'm here for."

He always feels like a knotted shoelace that's just been untangled and ironed out flat. Chuck always re-files everything in the proper order. He has no idea what to say. Just the same romantic shit that he can't help spouting lately. "I'm supposed to be getting lunch," he says lamely, into the quiet.

"Oh! Get the chili from the place with the purple napkins. He always liked that."

Sam laughs again. "You're talking about Edna's. What else?"

"I donno. Tell Cas on him. Tell Cas what a good job Dean did and just gush about it and Cas will turn it into whatever he does when they're doing the whispery staring thing. Tell him how proud you are of Dean. Dean gives more credit to indirect praise."

Sam's laugh is strained this time and he rubs at his head.

"Need you to do something else for me," Chuck says, quiet and serious.

"Okay."

"Take a deep breath with me and let yourself off the hook. You do this on like a monthly basis. I think that if you _worry_ you don't love Dean enough _that often?_ You've just proven you love him plenty. Okay? So deep breath in?"

They take one together and release it.

"Love you," Sam says on the gust out. "I was never allowed to get my sap all over Dean. So I have plenty to dump on you."

"It's mine-all-mine," Chuck says in his bad-guy voice and cackles.

«»

Chuck writes down the things he thinks are interesting. Sam usually has to read it after it's published. At least the sports-related ones. He has a feeling he's missing out on some other stuff.

He realized, recently, that he has a lot of little break-downs like he did when he realized that Dean was gonna build his house perfectly. Like, since they first started talking on the phone, he's known he could come to Chuck when he had repeat problems that never seemed to be solved. Issues that left him cold and lonely and on the outside looking in at his life and judging it too harsh.

Chuck's been on both sides of the glass. He has a perspective that seriously helps.

So Sam does that to him often - presses his laptop shut or crowds into him on the couch. It used to be the phone calls. Chuck must know he has a fucking mental problem by now. Because he always says the goddamn right thing. Sam will say something like, "I've got a problem," or "I want to say something," or whatever like that. And it's gotten to the point that Chuck just says, "Yeah, talk," or "I'm ready," and always always always "That's what I'm here for."

Sam doesn't feel like he does the same.

So it's in the same exact fucking style that he drops the spoon back into his granola and pushes down Chuck's laptop to see him chewing the toast that's hanging out of his mouth, fingers pulled up from what they were typing.

He pulls the toast from his teeth. "Well, I'll never get _that_ sentence back," he sighs.

"Sorry," he drops his chin into his hand.  
He could have started this out better.

Chuck gives him a look. "What?"

"Sorry," he repeats. "I just end up staring at the back of your laptop a lot when we're eating, lately."

Chuck winces. "I didn't mean to ignore you."

"You never ignore me. I was. I just. Uh."

Chuck sits up. He knows what's coming. So Sam intentionally tries not to phrase it like he normally does. "I. Have a thought?"

"About?"

He scratches his nose. "About ignoring you. Um. I feel like I'm the one ignoring you."

Chuck's smile is half-disbelief-half-amusement. "No?"

"I'm always going on about these things I read and telling you my problems and you always listen and you always take interest and you always help me when I need it. I don't feel like I do that for you. I feel like you kinda pour it out on your keyboard."

He cringes this time. "That's not your-- that's not something _you're_ doing. That's pretty much _me_. And, anyway, I think it's enough that you have to herd me around like a stoned kitten when my brain shorts out."

Sam kind of... picks up his spoon and shifts things around in the bowl. Puts it down again, agitated. Motions with his hands. "I don't want you to only ever talk in response _to me_. I feel like I'm always the one talking. I feel like it'll start to bug you after a while."

"Can I decide what bugs me, please?"

Sam rolls his eyes at himself. "Yes. Of course you- I wasn't saying that-"

"LA LA LA LA LA," Chuck waves his hands and babbles over him and they both shut up. "Listen," he says after a pause. "You've done a lot more _living_ in the outside world than I have. I've been in apartments. Marinating in liquor and sports statistics. Which was basically the story of my whole life when I wasn't actively receiving prophecy. Okay? I like to hear about the things you read and watch because it gives me interesting things to follow up on and listen to. We have discussions. We talk about things. I'm sorry if you have to start the conversations most the time, but, honestly, you have more to say and I feel. I donno. More _alive_ when you're talking to me. When you're being an active part of my life and inspiring things in me."

That word sounds-- everything Chuck was saying was starting to make sense up until that point. _Inspiring??_

"Don't- no. No. Don't give me that 'bullshit' look. How about this: do you _adore_ me?"

His hand almost takes his bowl out scrambling to grab Chuck's. " _Yes_. Of course."

"You _adore_ a scruffy, weird, brain-fried, over-caffeinated alcoholic half your size with minimal people skills. And it sounds _weird to you_ that you, with your epic life and your fights between good and evil and your _ceaselessly_ inquisitive mind-- you think it's impossible that this genuinely inspires me?"

"I. Well. I don't. I wouldn't call it that."

Chuck draws Sam's hand to his mouth and kisses it, speaks against it. "You're my gorgeous, dangerous, long-haired lover, half-nude in the middle of a priceless portrait. You're my _muse_ , Sammy."

"Oh my god, shut the fuck up," he feels himself go wide-eyed.

"We can talk about the Dodgers if you want. The Astros, the Sox, LSU, anything. I'll talk all the boring baseball math you want, all the movies and tv we've already watched together, all the comics you wanna hear about. But what I'd really like? What I _fucking love_?? Sam," he puts on this pleading look, this sad, lonely, begging look. "I read something on a news site about a volcano in Mexico. I didn't even know there _were_ volcanoes in Mexico."

"Oh no."

"Tell me about the-"

"There's the one in Ecuador, too."

Chuck's smile grows, little by little. He kisses Sam's hand again and he wants him so bad.

Like, _all the time_.

"You really want to hear me talk shit about geology?" he almost whines.

"That's exactly what I want. I don't actually _read_ the news. How else am I supposed to learn? I'm marrying somebody who can teach me things. It's really cool."

Oh, fuck. He's just gonna have to keep wrestling things out of Chuck when he's too tired and memory-blind to resist. He's going to have to get things out of him when they're naked and close and intense and scared and worried and sappy and _married_.

He'll get there. He'll work on it.

Until then, he pays better attention as he's enthusing over the dorky stuff he learned about. He keeps better track of what interests Chuck, when he perks up and asks questions and when he should move on to other stuff.

It's fine for him to stay snug in his shell. Sam never wants him to be uncomfortable. He just wants Chuck to want to drag him in there with him, sometimes.

«»

He notices Chuck leave but he's trying to figure out what's wrong with Josie's gun before they encounter any actual bad guys on this hunt, so it's taking some digging and some serious puzzling over the parts. He could be wrong, but he thinks some shoddy silver rounds fucked it up too badly to repair. She's not in a position to get a new gun and he can't figure it out, so eventually he brings the parts to Dean and Dean shuffles through it and just-

"Yeah, fuck this," hefts himself up with a groan and nods for Josie to follow. In the parking lot he opens the trunk of the Impala and says, "Welcome to the toy chest," with a grin and a wink and she looks skeptical until. Yeah.

"Been meaning to sort through some of these pieces. Get rid of the stuff we never touch." He pulls out a pair of H&Ks that he loved, passionately for a few months, until a bad hunt. He hasn't cared for them much, since. Sometimes he thinks guns go unlucky unless they're in the right hands. He weighs them with the tips of his fingers and... Sam leaves him to it. Dean's really great at picking weapons for people.

They have an hour until sunset, when they can follow their lead out to the county cemetery without anyone watching, so he heads back to their room.

Chuck only left the door open a crack and there's no noise from the television.

He's nowhere to be seen. Except that the bathroom door is opened a crack, light spilling in a line on the carpet.

He closes the motel door behind him. Tosses his keys and wallet on the bed. Comes to knock one knuckle on the door.

It squeaks open a little as he does and he peeks in. Chuck's just standing against the wall, opposite the mirror, arms crossed and looking down.

"Checkin' on you," he offers but gets no response.

He's really very still. This could be prophet stuff. He could be stuck behind someone, but normally he doesn't know to retreat. When he hides, it tends to be because something got overwhelming.

He shoulders the door aside a little more. "'Kay. Chuck? I just need to know if you need me to leave or you need me to be here."

"Can you shut the door?" he asks, quiet.

He didn't say which side of it Sam should be on. So. He steps in. Closes the door behind himself and leans back on it, next to where Chuck's planted against the wall.

Sam doubts his assessment a lot. Chuck surprises him most the time. It's not always what he instantly reads or expects from any given situation. This? He doesn't have much to go on. Just the close-cold air here in the bathroom, it feels like misery.

That's not unprecedented. Chuck's been through major shit. Depressive periods, too, and understandably so.

He feels small when this happens. He wants to be useful. He wants to fix it. He wants to change the color of Chuck's world until there's a light he can smile in.

When Sam gets stuck in similar places, he feels like it's easier to shake it off with Chuck there. Chuck normally repeats and repeats and repeats the same concept in different words until some version soaks through and he can absorb it. Use it. Filter everything through the love and hope that Chuck's presenting to him and understand why he feels this way. So he can find a light at the top to climb towards.

He's afraid he doesn't have the same kind of words. But, if nothing else, this is an opportunity to practice. It's awful to admit it, but he might as well: "I don't know when you started feeling this way. Do you want to tell me? So I can figure out what this is about? So I can help you?"

Chuck lifts his head, finally. His face is grim. Not shadowed or dull like he's behind a memory. He looks like he's unhappy with something that happened.

Sam's kind of. Well.  
Kind of shocked by that. Not that it's outside the realm of possibility, but. He hasn't seen him _displeased_ like this. Concerned? Yes. Determined? Yes. Puzzled and pissed? Yes.

This is different, still. "This is something else," he says. He drops his arms to twist a washcloth Sam didn't see him holding. He clenches it so tight his knuckles crack. "I don't know how to handle this. I don't know what to tell you. I fucking. I feel like a fucking asshole, I feel like a failure," he says almost all in the same breath.

Sam shakes his head and moves to stand in front of him. Takes the towel out of his hand.

It smells like.  
It smells kinda weird. Kind of gross. And a whiff of coffee, under it.

They haven't made coffee in their room. They had some next door--

"The mugs look the same. All the motel cups they just. They look the same." Chuck swallows like he's gonna be sick. "I grabbed Dean's. I didn't expect-" he takes a shaky breath and keeps his eyes down on the towel. Pulls it from Sam's hands and dumps it in the sink. "I grabbed Dean's coffee. I wasn't looking. I downed the last half of it without looking. The whole room smelled like gunpowder and coffee and that floral carpet cleaner, I couldn't. I um. I couldn't smell."

"Are you fucking kidding me," he breathes when he understands.

"I'm so sorry. I'm so fucking sorry. Oh my god, Sam, I'm so fucking sorry," his hands shake and he runs them back through his hair and over his neck and grasps at his own shoulders and Sam is gonna certifiably kick his brother's ass.

Right quick, he has to use one of those weird techniques he found online. Clenches his hands, imagines gathering his anger there, filtering down his arms, into his fists and then dropping them, spreading his hands wide, like the anger were liquid and it could slip out of his fingertips and fall to the tile floor and leave him so he can _deal with this_ , deal with what's in front of him without making Chuck see how flashflood-fucking-furious he just got.

Three breaths, in-one, in-two, in-three and out and he can pull Chuck's hands down, straighten his arms out, run his own hands down them and be gentle, careful.

He's babbling apologies because he thinks he screwed up. He thinks that this is something he did or allowed to happen intentionally and no. No, that isn't what went down here.

Before Chuck stepped into the room tonight, Dean poured two fingers of bourbon into his coffee and the motel room mugs all look the same, squat little white ceramic numbers with no designs or cracks to differentiate them.

Chuck's fingers fell to the wrong mug and he tossed it back without thinking.

He pulls Chuck's head up from under his jaw. Holds his cheeks. "Look at me. Stop apologizing. Tell me how you feel."

"Like a fucking moron."

"Stop. Tell me how you feel."

He rattles a breath. Reaches up to run the back of his hand under his nose. "I made myself throw up. I don't know. I donno. I'm standing here like. Like I'm waiting for it to kick in. Like I'm waiting for something to happen. Waiting for a burn or a buzz or anything and I just. I don't feel anything yet but I'm fucking terrified I'm about to. I just fucked up so bad."

" _You_ did not fuck up anything. You're perfectly fine. You're probably not gonna feel anything. You're scared because you _might_ , you're not scared because you suddenly threw yourself off the wagon and went looking for this."

There is nothing but doubt in Chuck's eyes and they drop back away, can't look at him.

"I really, really am _begging_ you to listen to me. I don't know what you're spiraling down right now, but you don't need to. I'm here. You didn't fuck up. You're not losing anything. You didn't pick up a bottle and start chugging. Can you look at me? Please? Because I need to say something that's really very important and I need you to hear me and understand me when I say it."

"I think I'm gonna throw up again."

"And if you _need_ to, then I'll let you, but I don't think you need to. I think you're scared and your body's twisting up on you. Please. Please, look at me."

Chuck closes his eyes for a moment and then looks back up.

"Okay. Chuck? I'm not leaving you because of this. I won't go anywhere. I swear. I'm not leaving you."

Yeah, okay. His eyes skitter away and he just falls to pieces. Stops holding himself up and leans and lets Sam move in and hold him. He pets Chuck's head and keeps him close and listens to the terrifying lack of sound from him. No babbling, no crying, just steeped in dread and this one little relief not enough.

He put in a lot of work to get here. He did. Addiction doesn't let go easy and as much as Sam knows that he doesn't _want_ to drink anymore, he'll always consider it, somewhere, in a quiet corner that he's simply grown to handle and shut away.

"We're gonna deal with this, okay? You need to breathe and let your stomach calm down. You don't need to throw up again. You probably lost your dinner as is, didn't you?"

Chuck sinks into him, minutely.

"So two things, okay? I'm gonna get you something else to eat. Something else to take up room and soak up anything else that might have got left in your system. And you won't feel a buzz, but in case you do, you'll just lie down and go to sleep, okay? I'm gonna set you up in bed after I get you something. Are you ready?"

"I'm sorry."

"I know you are and it's only because you weren't on guard for this kind of thing. And you shouldn't have to be. The rest of our family should care about you being sober as much as you do. I don't want you to be sorry; I don't want you to think about it. I want you to let it go. We can talk about it more in the morning but after that, you're gonna be in a whole new day and you can let it go."

"What if my body gets all fucked up because of this? What if I start getting the shakes again?"

"I can't say that's not gonna happen, but I don't think it will. You're gonna be just fine. If you feel anything, I'm right here. Let's stop speculating and let's just handle it, okay?"

Chuck pulls back and wipes at his mouth. "Okay. Okay."

He lets himself get drawn back out. Sam takes him with, down the hall and toward the stairs and to the vending machines. He gets him a fresh bottle of water and one of those plastic-wrapped cheese danishes and a pack of Reese's. It's the best he can do for now and he sticks around for a half hour, running his hand wide down Chuck's spine until the fear and tension drop out of him and he practically falls asleep sitting up, still waiting for a buzz that won't ever come.

The sky is a sliver of pink outside and Sam closes their door quiet, passes Charlie's room, and down to the open door where everyone's gearing up to head out. Chuck left his laptop and his notepad and his pens.

Two mugs sitting right there by the keyboard.

The others talk at him and he can't quite say he hears anything.

He can use all the anger-quelling techniques in the world, but he long ago accepted that just as much lies in wait beneath whatever calm he can find. He can work through it. And then he will have to face it anyway. Better for no one to see this, but whatever words Dean throws at him in that tone-- he doesn't even know what they are. He's not tuned in. He stacks the pad and the laptop and stuffs the pens in his pocket. He dumps the mugs out in the kitchenette sink and turns to Dean's bedside and gets the bottle from where it sits, mostly out of view, between the bedframe and the nightstand. He pours a mug full and he clunks it down in front of Dean and he whips the other one across the room, through the doorway, and it shatters on the tile of the shower wall.

Half the people in the room are cringing with their hands over their ears like it was as loud and sudden as an explosion.

The rest? Sam doesn't even see his brother. He sees Cas by the door, dark and pissed, disapproval on his face as if Sam could possibly give a shit.

He picks up the stack of Chuck's stuff, tucks it under his arm. Shoves the bottle at Castiel's chest as he leaves the room without a word.

They call. They text. They knock quietly. And then someone knocks loud enough for Chuck to flinch in his sleep and Sam finally has to open up and slip out.

Charlie.

"We're heading to the graveyard," she says, stern.

"Have fun," he nods.

"You scared the shit out of everyone."

"I really give a fuck about that, thanks for letting me know," he nods again.

She shifts her weight and puts a hand out. "Look: I understand you have a problem with his drinking-"

"I don't think you do understand, actually."

"Maybe if you'd _talk_ and you'd give us a _chance_ by telling us exactly _what_ -"

"I'm going back inside now because if my fiancé wakes up and doesn't see me there, he's gonna think I left him because he drank booze. Dean's drinking isn't just _about him_ anymore. It hasn't been for a long time. If he's incapable of controlling himself and Cas is incapable of controlling him and you're incapable of controlling him, I'll have Jody come down, pick up the kids, and make sure they don't ever go back to the bunker. I'll make sure she knows it would be _too dangerous_ for them to be there. I have a feeling she'd believe me." He'd make sure Claire went with her, moved out. No matter her ties to Cas, Claire trusts Sam and Chuck more than she trusts Dean. He knows he could do this. Knows for a fact. It isn't just a threat. His hands have been tied on the issue for years. Dean's gotten better and better but he still drinks when they're on the case. If he's using the booze for pain management, it's time for him to stop. Just fucking stop everything. Sam doesn't understand this behavior anymore and it just hit him where he lives.

He doesn't care that Charlie's still puzzling it out. He doesn't care if any of them understand what happened. Frankly, he thinks they're lucky he doesn't have the self-control to face them right now. He thinks they're lucky the only thing he does is close the door in Charlie's face and snap off the lights and climb into bed to soothe his significant other.

«»

Chuck's been awake for a while by the time Sam blinks into the gray of dawn.

He leaves his hand on Chuck's belly, where it's been.

"Feel kinda stupid after all that," Chuck whispers.

"Nothing to feel stupid about," he assures him, matching his tone. "It could have gone in all sorts of directions. You did just fine. You did what you could."

"I'm really sorry."

"You don't need to say that. You don't have anything to be sorry for. You're allowed to be a little freaked. Nothing's gonna run me off."

Chuck turns to him. "Nothing?"

"If you really had picked up that bottle yourself, it wouldn't have changed anything. I would have worked out what was wrong with you. We would have gone through it together. But this was just an accident and that happens sometimes. You need to know that, even if it weren't an accident? Chuck, it's not just one part of you that I love. Not even three parts, five parts. Not just the writing plus the sobriety plus your mouth plus your ass plus your memories. It's all of your parts. I love _you_ not _you contingent on certain conditions_."

Chuck blows out a breath. "Wow. Not contingent on certain conditions." He shakes his head. "Wow."

"Good words?"

"Really good words. Amazing words."

"I think that proves I'm learning from you pretty well."

"I think you were always that smart, but sure, I'll take the credit," he smiles a little and shrugs. Then pulls his hands up to pick at a thread in the sheets. "Can we not talk about this with the others?"

Crap.

"Oh," he watches Sam cringe.

"Yeah. Um. God, I'm really sorry. That ship kinda sailed."

Chuck blows out a breath. "Okay. That's fine. That's alright."

"I didn't punch anyone in the face," and way to fucking go, that sounded super defensive.

Chuck tilts his head back and takes another breath. "I really hate being the delicate little alcoholic flower over here."

"Nobody said you were."

"Well, I just. I don't like being the weak link - and that _I know_ I am so don't even, alright? I just. I don't like this. That's all."

"You're not a weak link. Goddammnit. Chuck, if you seriously consider me some kind of paragon of strength over here, do you understand how incredible you are to be the one capable of propping me up? You are. You're amazing. If it weren't for you, I don't know how I'd be falling to pieces. I just know I would be. You've become one of my favorite things in life. So no shit-talking, okay?"

Chuck blinks at him.

And there's a knock on the door.

He sighs. From the short snap of it, Charlie again. "I'm gonna be right outside," he runs a hand over Chuck's head and into his hair. Kisses him. "Please stay here?"

"Gonna brush my gross teeth, I think."

"'Kay."

They pull their jeans back on and go their separate ways. Charlie waits outside leaning against the wall. Sam pulls the door closed behind himself.

They watch the cars pass out on the road for a minute. "Dean and Cas went home," she says very carefully. "Cas figured it out. He, um. They. They're gonna take a week. I can't say that the drinking is gonna end. But. That. That was careless. It was an easy mistake to make but it was. Careless. Dean wants you to call him when you're ready."

"Dean can come to our apartment and apologize to Chuck when _he's_ ready. This isn't a family of two anymore. _You_ told us that," he points out. "I'm not gonna filter things for Dean anymore. He needs to handle his own relationship with Chuck. He doesn't have to call him his brother. He just has to acknowledge that this isn't fading away." He takes a deep breath. "Chuck doesn't need a sitter. He doesn't need his hand held. He knows what he's doing here. He never asks for much. Listen: I don't have a dog because they freak Dean out. We don't keep pickles in the bunker because they make you _angry_. When Chuck is around, Dean can stick to beer. It isn't asking a lot. Chuck doesn't ask to be coddled. He wants to blend in as much as possible. _I'm the one_ who needs him for my fucking patience and... sanity and... calm. Alright? I'm the one who's dependent on Chuck's wellbeing. I can handle myself, now. I feel healthier. I just," he motions vaguely. "Need him. Need him to be okay."

Charlie looks up at him from the side. "What happened in Canada?"

What?  
"You know what happened in Canada."

She shakes her head and stares out at the road again. "You've been drastically different since Ottawa."

He leans sideways a little. "He. I. There was this guy. One of Bobby's contacts. I called him up just to see if Bobby had any other stashes he knew about. The guy traced the call. Got to where we were staying. You know, he'd heard all the stories. About me raising Lucifer. So he came gunning for me," he rolls his eyes, "obviously I didn't know or else I wouldn't have fucking called. So he kicks his way in, I wake up. Two shots each and. I donno. I was a little blurry until we're in the car and. Chuck had just. Without blinking, without considering, without panicking. He got us out. Got us away from the cops. Just stitched me up. I was asleep, you know? He was sitting up. The guy only paused long enough to not gun down an innocent. To aim for me and not him, but it would have been easier for him to tap both of us out. To just... kill Chuck where he was, but he didn't think about that. He acknowledged it as fact and moved past it and," he touches the rim of his ear. The dent he never asked Cas to heal up. "He got me out and patched me up. I'm in the passenger seat looking up at him doing the stitches and I just thought. He could be sipping a beer, quiet and alone in an apartment. Warded and safe and never have to deal with me. Never have to do the work on my sense of myself and the way I think and talk. He could have been safe and quiet. But he bought me a fake passport with money he earned and we went to a country he didn't actually care about to get books he didn't actually want to have to use and he was shot at and all he did was. Fix me."

Sam blinks off.

"He tells me I'm not broken but he fixed me."

"Kind of ripped out the stitching between you and Dean," she says.

"No." He sniffs. "Dean still feels the same way. I still feel like I'm a bad person for not feeling his exact way. That's what it always was. But now. Now Dean's got somebody telling him he's worthy all on his own. We needed two more people to tell us we were worth anything on our own. I don't know. Dean seems like he resents that. Maybe I'm weaker than he is because. I just. Can't wait. I can't wait for Chuck to straighten me out sometimes. I thought I was supposed to end up alone. I thought Dean was gonna have picket fences and I was gonna end up alone and Chuck, well," he shrugs. "Chuck doesn't give a shit about anything that was 'supposed to be' - he thinks god is a bratty fucking child." He smiles.

Charlie laughs a little.

"I'm sorry. About not saying anything. About. That. And then just leaving the room. I try, Charlie. I try really fucking hard not to be so angry. I try so fucking hard," he shakes his head. "I am sorry. I'm sorry," he repeats.

"Guess it could've been worse," she shrugs.

"No, that's not how this works. I could have opened my mouth. Or. Thought it directly at Cas. I just. Didn't have the words but I had a nondescript mug. I'm gonna bring him a mug from home. I'm gonna sit between him and Dean. We can do the research in the other rooms. There are solutions. I know better than just fucking violence."

"See? You really are different. Sam, you can let yourself off-"

The door pulls open a little at his back.

"Oh. Sorry," Chuck says.

"No, that's okay," he pushes the door back.

Chuck cringes, hesitates. "You said you'd be back."

"Yeah, I did. I'm right here, you want me?"

He kinda shrugs.

"I'll call," Charlie sighs and pushes off the wall. "Hopefully we won't need you. But I'll keep you updated. Chuck? You okay?"

He just shrugs again.

"Yeah. I guess that makes sense," she says, and wanders into the other open room.

Sam pushes him into the room again and shuts them in. Presses kisses to his head. "Show me your hands?"

Chuck holds them out and they tremor enough that it's unmistakably the reason he's been huddled in his hoodie.

"You feel like this all over?" Sam whispers.

"I don't know. I don't know, I'm kinda disconnected from it."

"That doesn't thrill me, either. I'm gonna hope that you're just freaking yourself out. I don't think one drink after this long really would have done that much. But let's work on it. Okay?"

Chuck considers him. Pulls his hands away. "You should probably go with them. Make sure they know what-"

"Nope."

"I can just sleep," but his eyes shift left and.

Sam has one little doubt.

Whether he's lying about how bad he feels or thinking about hitting the corner store and making this an official relapse, Sam doesn't know. But something twigs his instincts and now there's no way he's leaving Chuck to fend for himself for the day unless Chuck actually tells him he has to get out. He won't hover where he's not wanted but Chuck will have to actually say it. He'll have to tell him to go.

"Do you want to be alone right now?"

Chuck's shoulders fall.

"Do you want me to stay with you?"

Chuck scratches his head. His eyes dart around.

"Can I tell you my plan? I really want you to pick me. It's a great plan. Gimme a chance."

He wavers, reaches to brush something off Sam's shirt. "I usually pick you, anyway."

"You don't have to. But I have a great plan."

"What's your plan?"

Sam comes close slowly and wraps him in his arms. "I do this for a while. And then I go out. I let you stay here in the quiet and take a shower and get dressed. I come back with coffee and you decide where you wanna go eat."

"I thought this plan was gonna have more _you_ in it."

"It can. Unless you really wanna be alone and breathe. By all means, I'd rather stick to you. But I want you to choose me. I don't want you to feel boxed in."

Chuck breathes against him, kinda sinks in. "This is so stupid. But. Will you go to Starbucks? And watch them make it? You're tall enough to see over the bar."

"You trust me to do it without you. Do you know how much that means to me?"

"It's stupid anyway. It's not like they would add-- but. I can't shake this just. Fucked-up feeling."

"I know you think it sounds weird but I understand. I'll get it dry and we'll add the sugar on our own. You can trust me. We'll bring your mug from now on. It won't happen again, I swear. You know you're not starting from scratch, right? This counts even less than Bosco's. This wasn't something you chose."

Chuck squeezes closer. "Five more minutes. Then I'll go shower."

"Long as you want." Sam wraps him tight.

«»

Dean calls when he's pulling up to the motel again.

He clears his throat. "Hi. Can I talk to Chuck?"

"You can the next time you see him."

Dean sighs. "I didn't mean it, Sammy. I know how much it means to you."

"How about what it means to him? Dean, he's the one who put in the work. He's the one you crushed. Besides the other times when you've just been a dick to him."

"I'm not a dick to him anymore!"

"Yeah. And you were doing just fine. Up to that limit where you've made it perfectly clear that you think sobriety is a cute little cop-out or something."

Dean huffs. "I screw up. I'm a screw up. I get it, okay. I get that this isn't just a phase he's gone through. I didn't do it on purpose. I wouldn't."

"I believe you. I do. But, you know what? You're remaking the kids in your image. And not everyone can do this job half-drunk, Dean. Do something for me: consider that maybe the example you're setting for _your kids_ is a little goddamn irresponsible. Just, you know, _fucking think about it_."

Dean grumbles something. "Can I talk to Chuck now?"

"No. Call his phone. He'll answer if he wants to." Sam hangs up on him.

He gets their coffees and knocks out the code on the door.

Chuck lets him in half-way into his shirt.

"Dean's gonna call you."

"Do I have to talk to him?" he grumps.

"That's up to you."

"I want my coffee first. I um. I wanna talk. I don't know how to say this."

Youch. That sounds serious.  
Sam closes the door and they sugar his coffee, first. Mix it up well and go to sit on the bed.

Chuck keeps his drink between his thighs and rubs at his thumb. His phone rings on the nightstand and they stare at it until it kicks Dean to voicemail.

He lets Chuck come up with words. It doesn't usually take this long, but he's still a little shaky. He could probably use some food. More sleep.

"I was sitting right next to the kitchenette sink. I could have spit it out. I could have spit it out in their bathroom. I could have spit it out outside. I could have spit it right back into the cup. But. I realized. And I swallowed it anyway. And it wasn't a shock. I think I might have known. And I wanted it."

Sam knows exactly what that feels like. He remembers it vividly. He remembers that exact same feeling when Famine's thirst crept into him. And Chuck saw that whole thing. So all he has to do is say, "I've been there." Chuck knows he has.

"Thing is," Chuck picks at the lid of his drink. "I want to be sober for you. Because you got me sober and I. I'm in _love_ with you. I'm so in love with you. You offered and I said yes and I said yes because it was you and I don't regret that. But I also want to be sober for me. So I know by the look of you what you're feeling. So I can react to you and be what's right for you. And I want to remember, all the time, what we are together. Because this is the most important thing I've ever done with my life. Is somehow become your partner. And drinking is gonna fuck that up."

Sam wants to reach for him but he thinks he probably needs to work on his words right now. He will probably get to the end of them and at the end of them he'll still love Sam and he'll ask why he isn't being touched.  
All he has to do is listen and try to understand.

"I don't want to drink because I have this now. But I'm not entirely sure I was ever the one who wanted to drink in the first place. I mean, casually? Sure. But. Cas said this was as good as programmed into me. He said he couldn't make me not want it because it's just a part of my existence. A part of my human experience on this world. So. I can't know if I was ever the one who wanted that. I just." He stops seeming to be at a loss.

"You picked me. You know you picked me by yourself. That wasn't some destiny," Sam offers. "You always think you don't know how to do this and it's new and daunting, but I wouldn't have said _yes_ if I didn't think you were the best I'd ever seen at it. So. Pre-programmed or not - if I can choose what to be, you can choose what to be. If I can choose who to marry," he leaves that hanging and holds his hand out and Chuck places his own in it for him to take. "You didn't swallow it because it was secretly a thrill. You swallowed it out of shock. It's easier to spit than make yourself throw up. I know you. I know forcing yourself to do that is painful - so, inherently not something you would wanna do. You didn't do it on purpose. You weren't testing yourself. It was a shock and an accident and I'm here to support whoever it is you wanna be, even if your destiny or your personality or even your essential makeup try to tell you that you can't. If there's a next time, you don't have to run away on your own. You can come to me."

Chuck stares at their hands. "Because-"

"I'm in love with you, too. And you give me reasons to let go of my addictions. I have more of them than I thought I did." Not just the demon blood and the anger. But the world-saving. Clawing for acceptance. Dean. And settling. He was just settling for a whole lot before Chuck. He was addicted to these things. He didn't think to do differently.

Sadness, too. He was punishing himself more before Chuck. He still is but he remembers that Chuck wouldn't want him to and he lets go. Chuck helps him let go of those addictions.

"I let go of things now because I'd rather spend that time with you. So let go of the things that still wanna drown you. Spend that time with me."

Chuck takes a deep breath. "Okay. You're gonna have to tell me that again."

He tries not to smile.

Every "again" is another day down the road where Chuck still sees them together.

Maybe he doesn't see the future anymore, but Sam wants him in charge of it, anyway. He'll be there for that. He'll pay the price in any amount of his own feeble words if it means he gets the wealth of Chuck's.

Sam hears his stomach grumble again. "What kinda food were you thinking about?"

"Shouldn't we be helping with the hunt? You missed the thing last night-"

"We're letting the others handle it. We'll be backup. They'll call. They, um. Figured out why I got so mad yesterday. So. That's um. I'm sorry. But, they would want you to feel okay before we go back."

Chuck's shivering. Little tremors in the hand Sam is holding. He's just hungry enough, worried enough, and generally scared enough to be on shaky ground. Sam can't imagine there was alcohol in his system for long enough that he'd really start getting rocked out by it. But he knows about coming close to danger. Knows that Chuck won't feel like himself for a few days.

It's more shock and disgust with himself than anything.

Sam can hold him. Press into his skin that nothing has changed. That he's not _bad_.

He tells Sam that often enough. He should really return the favor.

Sam gets him into a few layers. Makes sure he's bundled and warm. Settles him into the car with his coffee. Gets into the driver's seat and pecks at his face until Chuck laughs and pushes him away. "Drive! Over- go over to your own side. Drive."

«»

The fourth time the phone rings, Chuck puts his breakfast sandwich down on the paper bag and sets his coffee in the flimsy-fake cup holder.

"You don't have to," Sam says.

Chuck only gets out of the car and wanders to sit on the hood. Answers the phone.

The conversation doesn't go on for as long as Sam expected.

Chuck slumps back into the car after only a couple minutes.

Sam doesn't prompt him but he does stare.

Chuck takes another bite and says through his food, "Having family is exhausting. I don't think that's gonna change anytime soon."

Hm. That doesn't sound good.

Sam gives him another minute.

Chuck tosses his half-sandwich down into the paper. "It's not his fault."

"It's not yours, either."

"Dean's not the one with fucking dietary restrictions. I should have looked out for myself."

"I thought I made it pretty fucking clear that you shouldn't have to look out for yourself that closely. You shouldn't have to walk around us all thinking your drink might get spiked," he heats back up to a low simmer. "What the fuck did he say to you?"

"He just apologized."

"That's not all."

"No, he did it like five times and I got tired of saying it was okay so I hung up on him. It wasn't his fault. It was nobody's fault. Look, I'm boffing his brother, the guy's never gonna like me much. We're never gonna end up being that nice to each other. You don't have to force it."

"I'm not forcing it. You know that Dean's secretly-"

"A TOTAL SAP!!"

"Yes! Exactly. It makes no sense that he-"

"It does, though, Sam," he deflates. "Fuck, I mean. More for me than anybody. You know that's where this is coming from, right?"

His brain shorts a little. He actually doesn't.

Chuck's eyes go wide. "Sam. Seriously. He figured it out before you did. I freak him out because I know exactly how he feels. About, like, almost everything! He- Sam. He's half-worried I'm gonna tell everybody he's been in love with Cas since we met."

Sam blinks because.  
What.

"I mean. Sam. _When we met_ ," he emphasizes. "He needed help to get you away from Lilith and Cas bent the rules to help him. Like. The day we met. Dean's been lost on him almost the whole time. Plus he's a total worrier when it comes to you. He blames himself because he thinks you can't be happy because he didn't raise you to _be_ happy. And he worries constantly that Cas is gonna bounce on him. That everyone will. He worries the kids don't trust him and he worries what will happen if he never has kids of his own - worries what will happen if he ever does! He feels... jesus, there's no other word for it. Cracked and fragile. And he doesn't think a man in his position is allowed to feel that way. And he's worried I have the power to reveal that and effectively shove him off the table so he shatters. He thinks I have power over him in that way and he resents it! Resents it more knowing I could."

He stops.

"Well. Do what I just did. You know: tell you that. And now, worse: he thinks I have the power to not only expose him, but to take you away from him forever when he's at his most powerless."

Sam has to put his food down, too.

"He. You're saying. You're saying he sees you as a threat? I kinda thought he just saw you as pathetic."

Chuck sinks into his seat.

"I'm not calling you pathetic! I just thought- he was always talking shit about how I was gonna spend all my time coddling you and how he didn't think you knew what The Life was like in practice, just theory. I thought he was calling you-"

Oh. Oh okay.  
He sees it now.

Dean was calling Chuck weak and dismissing him in hopes that Sam would have the same opinion based on Chuck's inexperience and would reject anything Chuck revealed about Dean's inner workings as uninformed and bitchy.

"Oh god, he's the biggest carnival-prize teddy bear on the planet."

"That's what I'm saying!" Chuck shakes his hands around. "I know he's Bruce Wayne and I know Bruce Wayne sleeps with his binky!!"

Sam rubs his eyes trying to chase the image away.

"So it's just. He apologizes to me a hundred times and I can just tell how distressed he is and it makes me emotional and I'm worried that if I cry, _he's gonna cry_ and he'll loathe me for the rest of time," Chuck throws his arms out.

"Oh my god."

"You are strictly not allowed to tell him we had this conversation."

"This is so convoluted!!"

"If you tell him-"

"If I tell him we had this conversation, then he has to pretend to hate both of us when he would rather just tuck us in at night and buy us socks and make sure we're safe and well-fed. Oh holy shit," Sam marvels.

"Literally, dude. He's so."

"Domestic."

"We're not even that domestic sometimes. And we're, like, sickening."

Sam frowns and picks his food back up. "We're not _sickening_."

"We have nicknames. Multiple nicknames. We're building an actual house. You get the stuff on the tall shelves for me. We're super-über-domestic. But, like. Dean and babies. Dean and curfews. Dean and Cas. Dean and calling to check in. Dean being a mom. Dean and that little organizer he got for the spice cabinet. Dean 'Wash Your Hands Before Dinner' Winchester."

"When is mother's day for muggles? I'm gonna make everybody send cards to him."

Chuck blinks. Pulls his phone from his pocket again.  
"I donno but I'm about to find out."


	3. i've had enough with rolling boulders

Sam puts the last box in the car for them to leave the bunker with tomorrow. They'll also have their travel bags. They'll have absolutely everything except for the few spare items they decided to leave in Sam's old room in case of emergency. This is the last-last-last of it and the only other person who knows this and is awake has followed him down to the garage and if Sam isn't _very fucking careful_ he will start getting emotional on him. That's only a bad idea because Dean hates to get emotional _in response_.

But he's wound-up, arms-crossed, kicking his boot toe at the cement of the garage floor.

Sam shuts the trunk and leans with a foot against the back bumper.

Dean comes out of the sloping light of the stairway to lean there with him.

"I already shut the trunk," he decides aloud. "So that's it. That was the cut-off. It already stopped. From here on out we're not gonna slip back to our Neanderthal states and abandon the people we love because we don't wanna hurt them." He looks over to his brother. "We made this decision and we're sticking to it. There's nothing they wouldn't do for us, anyway. And I already shut the trunk. We stopped being in charge when we put Charlie in charge. And now we just stopped being-- we just stopped," he declares.

"Stopped being lone wolves," Dean fills in. "We didn't stop being hunters. But. We can't be the same ones we were."

"You know why," Sam says, firm and sure. Because Dean knows the real reasons. He lets the imagined ones haunt him. And he's still kicking himself for leaving the booze on the table. Only shut up about it when Chuck finally snapped at him to _leave it, shut up, stop apologizing_.

"I know why," Dean agrees. "I know that if we abandon them and keep hunting on our own, then we keep putting family in the rear-view. We're family," he points between the both of them. "But it would be shitty of us to leave the rest of them without knowing how to do this."

Sam nods. "If we really love them, we'll let them hunt."

Dean's hands tense. Release.

"I know you don't like it. But we don't like it when anything ends. And we do it anyway. Life keeps pushing forward on us. So. This is how we stick with the people we care about if life is gonna fucking keep doing that to us anyway." Dean doesn't know this is more to assure him than the both of them. Sam doesn't need to be pushed to change. A lot of the time he wants it. This time, his brain is being really unfair about it. He barely has the patience to stick here and wait this out and reassure his brother. He wants to go upstairs and grab change with both hands and fold it in his arms and wake up with it to go live in an apartment, tomorrow. And all the days after, until it's a house with a bathtub and the wide woods out back.

Dean breathes deep. "I don't have to like it," he repeats for himself. "But I have to do it, anyway."

"I maybe haven't said in a while that I'm proud of you for knowing that."

It makes Dean kick off from the bumper and wander into the dark. He and Chuck take praise in the same way. They're never ready for it and it makes them doubt more. But they're getting more practice at it.

These little things that they should be able to handle. They're growing into them with practice.

Dean circles the Impala once and by the time he's back around, he isn't quite so tense.

"I need your help with the house," Sam reminds him. "My, like, dreams are bigger than my abilities."

"I'll fucking make it happen. I will," Dean says, fierce. Because Chuck was right: it's important to Dean to be able to build the house Sam lives in.

"Okay. Cool. So. We need a week to settle in. After, you guys tell us if there's a hunt or if you're coming up or what. Okay?"

Dean nods. "I can still call, right?"

He laughs because, uh, yeah. "Dude, it's not like we're moving to different countries, here. There aren't rules about how much contact we can have. We're just _stepping out into the world_ , alright? I swear. It's just outward progress not a prison sentence. Nobody's getting trapped. I mean. If you feel trapped here, Dean," he tosses his hands at the whole-everything around them, "then, that's a problem. Then, you'd need to _tell me_ that." Sam waits. "Dean."

He lifts his head.

"Do you feel trapped here?"

Dean's shoulders drop a little. "No. No, I feel good about this. I just. Already see you less and less. I'm just." He shakes his head. "I don't know if I'll ever be used to that."

"Well. So many years we've built up a habit. Time for new habits."

He looks up at Sam again. "You think this is as bad as Chuck's drinking was?"

Sam rolls his eyes and shakes his head and sighs, elbows back on the car. "No. No, this is way worse. Chuck didn't start his habit until he was a teenager. We didn't try to stop ours until I left for Stanford. And it didn't hold. We relapsed. Never went back. So I know this won't be easy for us, but. Here we go. Gotta try again."

"We're we-a-holics. Winchester-holics."

"Yeah, I keep telling you the word is 'codependent,' but-"

"I don't like that word."  
"-you don't like that word."

"Mm," Dean says after a while, shifting like he's caught out. "I can feel him up at the top of the stairs waiting for me."

Sam smiles. "Cas has big plans for you. He can't wait to call this home with you."

"Yeah, but this is still your home if you ever need it," Dean insists.

Sam takes a deep breath. He doesn't say out loud whether he agrees with that or not. They both know that they both know it. But they've maybe gotta stop saying it.

And he wants to go home right now and he can't feel his home waiting for him at the top of the stairs because his home is another floor up, already asleep.

He stands straight and walks away from the car. Turns the low lights off as he passes so Dean can't just stand there brooding in the complete dark.

He says goodnight to Cas as he passes him.

Dean doesn't want to hug him in the morning, in front of everyone.

Sam makes him do it anyway.

«»

To Sam, the apartment - their apartment - is beginning to feel like Chuck's place in Kansas City. He started off visiting a lot and then staying as much as he could, two days at a time, assuming he would drive Chuck nuts if he pushed it any more than that. But then the times he spent away were briefer and it was maybe three, four days out; two, three days in. And Chuck didn't get sick of him.

Then there was the month after Oregon. The month after Texas. Their apartment.

The bunker never felt like this. Like.

He doesn't know.

Like promise and morning and rest and cool sheets and space.

Like the side-of-the-road far from the asphalt and signs but still in view of the world.

Walking in this week, the first day of a full week, is a lot like when they came home to stay, to Officially Live Together.

He wishes Chuck would put his damn coffee down so he could jump him.

He kicks the new- the last of the boxes to the side and puts his own coffee down on the counter to take off his jacket.

Then he steps up to pry the phone and the cup out of Chuck's hands and place them aside, too.

It gets his attention. "Okay, hi," he says, confused, and then less confused when Sam corners him against the wall.

"Yeah. Hi."

"This is something we did like the first time we were here."

"Yeah. We can do it again, though."

"There's a table in the way under the window now," he points.

"I can just bend you over the table, then."

Chuck gives him a bit of a look. "You don't kiss me enough when you're behind me, I don't know if I'm down with this plan."

"Oh, well, that's fixable," he shrugs. "I fix things. I fixed the noise thing."

"You didn't _fix_ the noise thing, you just made it less public."

It's time to pout. "Are we not having welcome-home sex?"

"Oh. God. Yeah. Yeah, we can, I just. It's like the tacos all over again."

"I felt that way about it, too," he smiles.

Chuck kindly does not roll his eyes.

"Okay, so if you're not objecting?" He strips his own shirt off.

Chuck shrugs like, _well, then there's that_ , so he takes the rest of his clothes off and stands naked in front of him.

"I'm. Well. Yeah, okay."

So, okay.  
Sam opens Chuck's pants and sinks to the floor to kneel on the pile of clothes he dropped there.

Chuck looks down at him there and... gets hard really fast. He's definitely blinking down at him like this is more hot than he expected.

"Fuck," he whispers. "Kitchen."

Sam just keeps smiling because he can't stop. Breathes over Chuck's boxers and starts pulling everything down. "What's with you and kitchens, anyway?"

He starts to speak but has to restart when his voice cracks apart. "Um. Just. Got to kiss you for the first time in a kitchen. I think we do our best making out in kitchens."

Hm. Sam files this information away and caresses down Chuck's legs before pulling his hips forward and swallowing him down.

Chuck is shocked-silent above him for a suspended moment before he shakes and shouts, loud, just once. His hands come to Sam's head and that will work. Because he's been meaning to switch up the pace on these things.

The first time he pushed Chuck to the couch and went down on him was the result of building it up in his mind for something like four months.

He was positive that a great blowjob would be the key to getting Chuck to come back for more. Then he began to wonder how he would taste. Then he wanted to know. Then he _needed_ to know.

He likes the way Chuck tastes all over. Chuck doesn't like when they're in panic situations, out on hunts, so they can't stop to shower - though he's used to it from his hazy boozing days. He put different habits in place of the drinking. (For the most part, he showers and caffeinates and, weirdly, makes the bed. He only makes the bed in the morning, not after a nap later in the day. Sam is intrigued by Chuck's patterns.)

Anyway, it means he tastes clean all the time. It means his skin is soft and hydrated and tastes like. Just like.  
Him.

Just like Chuck. Sweet and flat. Consistent.

Smell of that same tropical detergent they both use now. And coffee sometimes, but mostly that's his mouth, when they kiss.

The weight of him in Sam's mouth is perfect and expected. And he's still not big on swallowing but when it comes to Chuck, he just wants to. It's kind of thin and not like a huge, thick mouthful. And he supposes the taste has just grown on him.

Probably a mental thing. Because the way Chuck sounds and looks when he's coming power-trips him out. At that point, he's earned it - Chuck's come belongs to him. He wants what's his.

Chuck doesn't think he's healthy enough for marathon sex, almost to the point where he'll convince himself he's too tired to try for twice in the same day. So Sam just _proceeds_ unless Chuck turns him away. His initial reluctance is usually swayed as soon as Sam doesn't have a shirt on. He likes that Chuck appreciates all the work that takes. The fact that it gets him hard is even better.

Sam is strong. And he likes proving that to his significant other.

So, this time, when Chuck's hips start moving a little Sam secures Chuck's hands to the back of his head, drops his jaw as much as possible, then tries to handle Chuck's thighs until he gets the message: Let Go.

Chuck is either disbelieving or not understanding until Sam holds himself still entirely and closes his eyes and moans.

Half-word cries shudder out of him for another moment before he grips Sam's head and _thrusts_ hard and real just once and Sam moans again because, _yes, exactly_. And Chuck breathes deep and repeats the movement until he can't breathe at all, comes too close and has to fall back for a second.

Sam gives him up with a wet noise. "Chuck," he sounds good and wrecked to his own ears.

"You have to tell me," he pants, "if I'm supposed to apologize or if I'm actually supposed to fuck your face here because-"

Sam licks his lips and swallows him down again and stays there, loose, because that ought to answer the question.

Chuck doesn't know how to handle Sam's head like he's allowed to. He only knows how to hold him soft and cherishing and being careful of his hair. So he gets a good-enough grip and thrusts a little while longer, but then Sam has to hold his hips and go after him, instead.

It's heated and amazing and he can feel Chuck's confusion and then his excitement when Sam proves it's what he really wants.

Chuck's fingers are grasping and lost in turns and his control on his volume slips and his legs go unsteady and it's totally hot, too-intense but still not the punishing kind of pace Sam expected and-

"Stop you have to stop," Chuck says between gasps.

Sam sits back again and heaves a breath.

Chuck is staring down at him and reaches to thumb at his lip before he slides down the wall, practically falling on his ass, panting hard. "Gonna fucking pass out," he says on a breath. "Fucking. Really hot. Fuck."

Sam lets him breathe for a minute, strips off the rest of his clothes, then kisses him. Kisses down. Crawls down between his legs to get him in his mouth again.

Chuck is completely under his power this way. When he's here, doing this to Chuck, he knows exactly how hard and hot Chuck is. How much Chuck wants him. And Sam's not disappointed that Chuck can't really hold him down and make him take it. Chuck's hands come to the back of his neck, now, and he's just... loving. Thankful. It may not be what Sam's aching for right now, but it's _him_ and it's so-so sweet.

Chuck likes for Sam to pin him down and fuck into him. Maybe Sam is just looking for the parallel. He was wondering if Chuck would wanna fuck him like that.

He just.

He wants to be giving Chuck more on that front but.

He can't.

Because of.

Just because of so many things. So many- (violations-) and he can't-

He wants to get past them.  
But Chuck doesn't even ask him to. He hasn't pressed for it, not once.

So Sam wants to give him this.

And so it may be awkward and he may actually have to verbalize what he's aiming for next time. He wanted Chuck to let go. Feel so good. And it just.

He comes up for air and sits back.

Chuck's conked his head on the wall and he's wet and breathing hard. Reaching for him.

"Wanna do something different?"

"Uh."

"Wanna move?"

"Yeah."

They offer each other their arms and get up to head to the bedroom.

Sam can't help it. He wants to taste just one more time. So when he gets Chuck on the bed, he crawls up between his legs again and mouths at him some more.

It seems to dawn on Chuck, then. "Here's a dumb question: am I supposed to be just flat-out going to town on you right now?"

He has to pull away to laugh.

"Is that a yes?" Chuck looks down.

"That's a yes," he smiles.

"You want me to try again? I'm reluctant to use your hair."

"I know. Use my head. Use my ears."

"Jesus fucking christ I can't believe I'm having this conversation. Come up here and kiss me first?"

Chuck pushes him over, to lie back, after, and kneels over him. "Can I do it this way?"

Sam handles him into place above his face and, yeah, okay. That should work.

"I understand that I'm not _heavily endowed_ like some people in this bed, but if you need to push me off, just push me off."

"Shut up and fuck me," and maybe that was supposed to be funny but it didn't come out funny. Came out kinda desperate.

Chuck ends up curled over Sam's head pounding down, one hand in his hair, the other gripping the top edge of the mattress and Sam's gasping around him pulling Chuck's hips down toward him and it's maybe the most incredible thing that's-

Well. There was the towel sex. And the car sex. And the other welcome-home sex. And the birthday sex. So, like, okay. But maybe top-ten?

And Chuck is being so good for him, just doing exactly what he asked. And holding off and holding off. And he's getting exhausted. Won't be able to go much longer. His hands come up and caress Sam's head, " _I love you love you love you oh sweet fuck--_ "

Sam has to let go of him, has to stroke himself and come right the fuck now with the most significant other in his life losing it down his throat.

He beats Chuck to it and makes muted noise about it and that vibrates through him and Chuck seizes and fills his mouth and fuck yes. He rubs the backs of his legs.

Fuck yes.

He makes more noise as Chuck withdrawals and rolls away, sensitive and shuddering.

Chuck gasps for air for a minute and looks over at him and, "Oh holy fuck," shakes his head. And turns to crawl down the mattress and lick at Sam as he softens.

Sam tries not to knee him in the chest.  
It's incredible. But he shakes and shouts and has to pull Chuck away.

Chuck only attaches to him, runs fingers through his hair. "Oh, god. Oh my god. You should see your mouth right now. What the fuck did I suddenly do to deserve you? This is so much, Sam. This is everything."

Well. The first time Sam asked if they could move in together Chuck said, 'yeah, I want to' in such an offhanded way and. Here they are. That's what did it. That and so many things since then.

Chuck suddenly bolts up. "Oh my god! We have a slightly bigger tub. This is so good. Okay!" he climbs away. "Don't fucking move, I'm gonna do this. I have a plan. It's almost as good as your plan."

He nearly trips on the way to the bathroom and Sam hears the water start in the tub.

He really has to just lay there for a couple more minutes.

Chuck doesn't make him move. He disappears out into the main room and Sam sees him get his robe out of the bags but he doesn't pay attention once there's nothing naked to stare after.

Eventually, the water stops and Chuck comes back around to tug him up.

He's bossed around. "You sit in the tub. Rinse off, dunk your head."

Sam doesn't really feel like this. He kinda wants to wash off and sleep. But Chuck brought their coffees back in from the other room.

He steps into the tub and does what he's told.

Chuck doesn't get in with him, though. He passes Sam his coffee over his shoulder and takes it back once he's had a chug of it.

Then Chuck's hands appear again and he pulls scoops of water over Sam's head before reaching for the bag he brought in from the main room.

"Lean back, honey," he palms Sam's forehead and Sam gasps because Chuck hardly ever slips up and says 'honey'. It's amazing and Sam is keeping a count of it. Three times, now. It's so rare. It means Chuck is in serious-business relationship mode and it's awesome.

He doesn't draw attention to it. He leans back and lets Chuck do whatever.

Which turns out to be _washing his hair_ , oh dear _fuck_.

He's lathering really slow and deliberate by the time he asks in a whisper, "This is right, right?"

"Yes. Yeah. Oh fuck yes," he sighs. He readjusts where he's sitting and relaxes into Chuck's hands.

Sam absorbs the feeling. The tingle of Chuck scritching and scrubbing diligently and the tender care of each movement. His fingers firm and devoted to the task, but then there's how he hooks pieces back into place and when his touch curves over Sam's ear and down the back of his neck.

Chuck grabs a towel and probably soaks the floor rinsing his hair by hand, but he does it so Sam doesn't have to move.

Before the conditioner, Chuck comes to the side and turns Sam's head a little to kiss him and pass him his coffee once more.

"Sweetheart," he moans when Chuck moves behind him again.

Chuck wraps his arms around his shoulders and hugs him. "You okay?"

"Love you."

"Welcome home."

"I've had you the whole time. I was home already."

«»

Sam devotes himself to the study of the binding materials.

He compares Castiel's translation notes to Chuck's, even the things Chuck crossed off in favor of Cas's work. The thing about Chuck's first-draft notes underneath Cas's writing is that, like Chuck's regular writing, the first pass comes on instinct. His instincts come from memories buried deep. So deep that he doubts their meaning on the second pass.

But that doesn't make them wrong, just a little garbled at times.

Cas's handwriting goes slanted and angry where he finally noticed what happened to make him forget these events in history.

He also understands, quite clearly, that this binding won't work between himself and Dean. That's clear from his notes.

He wonders if Cas has explained that to his brother yet. He better have.

If they tried, Dean might be crushed under the sheer weight of history and knowledge inside of Cas. Castiel doesn't have just one little brain to store it all in. Angels are whole, entire beings full of light and creation and knowledge.

Even with the precautions Gadreel took and all he was hiding, even with the wall after Lucifer, and even with the naturally-expanded spaces built within both Sam and his brother for the very purpose of becoming archangel vessels, Sam still feels the weight of creation like an ache and an overwhelming sense of insignificance.

It can (and sometimes does) hurt him, mentally and spiritually. He knows that some of his depression is the result of understanding that doesn't belong to him, aside from the shitty things he's done to deserve it in his shitty life.

He closes the notes at this point and rounds their dining table to urge Chuck out of his chair.

He sits down there and pulls Chuck to sit on his lap.

This binding stuff is fascinating and he needs to power through it so he can find a wedding day and figure out if this thing is even safe in the first place.

But he reaches a point sometimes where he's lost like he used to get. Lost in the work and needing to feel the _reasons_ he's working more than the tasks themselves. Chuck is one of the main reasons. So, he can keep writing, but Sam needs to feel him. Needs to just watch him write for a while and remember that Chuck is smart and Chuck loves him and Chuck will always straighten him out.

He sits back on Sam's lap silently. Leans comfortably against him. And thinks a minute before he can pick up his paragraph again.

It's an article on the Colts defense. Chuck was squirrelly about Sam reading around his shoulder, initially. But, after the first couple times, Chuck simply let it go.

Sam had to ask, had to wonder what made his worry disappear.  
Chuck had said, "You'll read it eventually, anyway. And. I want you to feel like you belong in any of the places you want to be."

No judgment from him. Not ever.

So Sam is careful not to judge Chuck's work aloud. Though he does tap a finger on the screen when Chuck gets to a stopping point and says, "Missing a quotation mark."

Chuck thanks him and adds it.

Sam drags his mug over. "Can we share? I can reach the counter from here if we need a refill."

"Yeah," Chuck shrugs and switches to his browser to check a source.

He's got Chuck sitting sideways on him. He settles into his shoulder and wraps his arms around him and doesn't really move for maybe twenty minutes except to sip their coffee.

Chuck finishes and pulls up a submission email template. He has to squirm and finish the mug and ask for more and stir in sugar and shake out his hands before he actually even attaches the document.

He pulls it up. Reads it again.

Sam points. "Should that be 'which' or 'that'?"

"Mm." He changes it to read the sentence aloud.

They like 'which' better.

Chuck still nervously switches between the email and the document. He reattaches the new save. Reads the email again.

So Sam reaches around him to the "send" button on the touchscreen.

"Is it ready?"

Chuck takes a deep breath. He nods.

Sam hits "send" for him.

Chuck shakes out his hands and squirms a little more.

"No matter what your anxiety is telling you right now? That's a perfectly good article. It's a typical piece; it's good," Sam strokes a hand down his side and feels the calm creep into Chuck.

"Okay," he says.

"No matter what your nerves are telling you, you're good at this."

Chuck hesitates again. "Okay."

"No matter what your head is screaming at you right now, you deserve to have someone here to tell you that," he says into the back of his ear and kisses there.

A breath rattles out of him. "Okay. Thank you." Chuck watches some YouTube clips of draft picks before he starts his next piece.

Sam stays for a while longer before Chuck gets to another stopping point.

"Did you have questions or something?" Chuck looks to him.

"No. I just. Needed to write with you."

"Too much to take in at once?"

He shrugs. "Kinda."

"You think you need to talk it out with Cas? Or maybe Charlie?"

"No. I maybe need to let it cook."

"Okay. We can get up when you're hungry."

"Thank you."

He just sits and watches Chuck make words and ideas out of nothing.

«»

Chuck shouldn't have worried about the math. Cas was absolutely right: everything in the ritual has a modern-day equivalent. Including the star that the angels squashed to stop humans from binding themselves like this.

He's already finished going through most the notes and partitioned off chunks of information.

Stuff to deal with now, stuff to deal with later, stuff that's not important, stuff he can't quite figure out.

But then he moves on in the wrong fucking order. He can't help himself. Instead of confirming if everything is safe and researching the hell out of it, he straightens out the math and looks for the potential date, first.

By the last day of their quiet, first-full-week in the apartment, he is reasonably sure the ritual can take place in the spring.

He's pissed he has to wait until next year to fucking get married.

He tries to hide how angry that makes him by putting everything down and calling Dean.

They chat about bullshit and then Dean goes off a bit because Krissy's coming down to stay for a while and he heard it's because Aiden's being a dick.

So Dean has to freak out about trying to comfort and be of use to a hurt teenage girl and Sam suggests he not vary his behavior in order to do so. Instead of ham-handedly ripping off a sitcom speech to try and help her cope, he thinks Dean ought to teach Claire and Krissy how to work.

Which is, roughly translated, hustling pool for dough.

No better relief to a broken heart than suckering a grown-ass man out of a wad of cash.

Dean embraces the plan and it helps Sam remember that you have to wait and collaborate for the good stuff.

He types up his math and sends it to Cas to confirm.

While he waits, he does what he should have in the first step: attempts to determine if the binding is even a good idea.

If it isn't, how hard is he willing to lie to Chuck to get him to do it anyway?

He has to go sit with him again until Chuck asks for a progress report.

He grumbles and doesn't want to answer. So Chuck minimizes everything he's working on and leans into him, just waiting.

He doesn't say anything.

So Chuck decides to jump to a conclusion. "You found something wrong and it's not gonna work."

"No. I can make it work."

"You don't like how it works."

He doesn't really admit one way or the other.

"Okay. Is it about how the binding works or how the ritual works or how the math works or-"

"It's all fine," he lies. "I'm just worn out on it at the moment."

Chuck moves back a little. Eyes him. He looks kind of shocked.

Then kind of hurt.

"If you don't wanna discuss it with me will you at least tell Cas? Rather than, like, lying about it?"

Sam shakes his head. "How the hell do you do that?"

"How the hell could I not?? I don't think I can handle it if you're gonna start hiding stuff unless we're both just at least vocal about the fact that you are. I don't wanna do lies, Sam. That hurts and I'm not good at it."

"How did you even know I was-"

Chuck goes wide-eyed in increasing distress and moves to get off his lap.

Okay. Okay, yeah. Prophet. Chuck knows what Sam's lying face looks like in the mirror.

"Fuck. Sorry."

But Chuck has already escaped to the kitchen.

Goddamnit.

He follows Chuck. He's diligently cleaning his brown mug. Maybe a little too rough.

Sam comes to take it out of his hands and put the lid back on the baking soda.

"Okay. I lied. I fucked something up. I didn't do my research in the right order and, like an idiot, I'm sitting here wondering if I should lie to you about the binding if I find something wrong with it."

He takes the paper towel out of Chuck's hands, too, and tosses it.

He taps the sink and looks up at Sam. "Why?"

"So you'll do it anyway." He turns on the sink so Chuck will wash his hands. Turns it off again. "Because I wanna get married but it might not happen in a while. So if the binding is safe but I can't do it until two Decembers from now-"

"You were gonna lie so we'd have a regular wedding. On the other hand, if it wasn't safe but you could do it next week, you were gonna lie and tell me it was safe."

Sam sighs. Nods.

"Well, just so I know where your priorities are."

"Even just saying it out loud, that was a dumbshit thing to be considering," he admits.

"So you lie because you want to be able to lie to me so you were, what? Just testing out the waters?" he puzzles.

"Yeah," he points at himself: "Dumbshit."

"Just. Can you not??" Chuck tosses up his hands.

"Yes. I can definitely not," he agrees.

"Okay so. So, maybe it's unreasonable to propose to you and then not tell you when we can get married. Would it make you feel better to go do that? A muggle wedding? And we can-"

"No. No, not at all. I can wait. I was just thinking about it. I want it to work-"

"You want it to work more than you want it to be safe. Which is completely unlike you considering it's your head that will get invaded if this turns out to be a bad thing."

"Well, maybe yours, too."

"Sam. How about this. You've been staring at the notes too long already. I don't care if you did it out of order. Let's." He stops. Thinks. "Let's go work on the house. It's been too quiet. You haven't had more than just the one thing to focus on all week."

Sam is actually taken aback.

"Hold on. Waitaminit. Are you saying? That I've only been focusing on one thing this week? The book, the notes?"

"Well, yeah," he tosses up a hand again. "I mean, we haven't even gone grocery shopping or anything, we've pretty much been at the table all-"

Sam crowds him against the counter. "If you think I've only been doing one thing this week, then I haven't been doing the other stuff well enough." He presses in to kiss him deep and dirty and Chuck is about to protest before Sam blatantly grabs his hips the way he likes and it makes his arms come up around Sam, instead.

Sam hauls him up onto the other counter.

And once he gets him up there, Chuck worms away and off the other side.

"Don't lie to me!" he demands, pointing.

"Okay! God! Sorry! I was just thinking about it!"

"Don't think about it! I'm your fiancé not some damn witness!"

"Okay!"

Chuck walks away.

"Chuck!"

He rounds the kitchen to follow.

And he's gonna have a fucking heart attack one of these days if Chuck doesn't stop trying to do his jobs.

He's dragging Chuck away from the bed where he's piled the bags before Chuck says, "I'm packing so we can go north."

"I get that you're angry but you don't have to pack bags while you're angry to fucking deliberately give me nightmares."

"I'm leaving _with you_ , not--"

"I know. You don't pack stuff. That's a Sam job."

"You give me nightmares, too, fuckhead! Are you fucking gonna lie to me about the-"

Sam has learned (from being with Chuck) to dislike this amount of volume. It's so disturbing that he turns Chuck and squishes him in his arms and sways back and forth until he hugs back.

"I'm sorry. I was just thinking about it. I was just thinking about it and that wasn't even the right thing. I'm not making any sense. I don't want to lie to you. I just want this to be real and I'm already 100% prepared for it to be too good to be true."

Chuck deflates. "God. Just say that next time. Share your worries instead of being like, 'hey, I'm planning on lying to you, just so you know.'"

"Yeah, alright. That was really poor form," Sam admits.

"Alright. Move the bags. Hold me on the bed, and then you can pack after I'm ready to let you go."

So Sam shuffles them forward and lifts the bags and tosses them to the wall.

He huddles into the bed with him, pulls the sheets all up and tangles them together.

"We have to be quiet in this shell; we were just being way loud," he whispers.

"Okay," Chuck whispers back. "I'm sorry I yelled."

"I'm sorry I did, too. I hate it when we're anything but sappy. We should just be completely, unbearably romantic all the time."

"You've been doing really good with me. I didn't mean to make you think you weren't. I get freaked out because I know how well lying works when you're a Winchester. I don't want that."

He hugs Chuck tighter. "I don't want that, either. We don't do that."

"Tell me the truth about something and I'll tell you one, too."

Sam doesn't even have to think about what he's going to admit. "I let Dean get dosed with vamp blood so I could see what happened to him. Not so I could test the cure, not because I froze up. I watched it happen. I waited for it to happen. I wouldn't have done it if I had a soul, but I've always been curious to watch. So when it happened? I knew what I was doing. I knew I could have stopped it." He's been holding that poison within himself ever since he remembered the exact moment. He's been holding it too long. And if he can't put it in the hands of the man who will be his husband, then who can he trust with it?

He's told Chuck the bare minimum about that year. Only as much as he told Dean that he remembered, so he could keep the truth straight.

He shouldn't be keeping anything from Chuck. Not even the ugliest stuff.

Chuck slips his arms free so he can pet Sam's head.

"That wasn't you."

"It sure as shit felt like me," he whispers.

Chuck doesn't denounce the significance of it any more than that. He takes a breath and says, "When you guys first showed up at my door I acted like I didn't recognize you because I didn't want you to be real. You couldn't be real. If you were real, that meant that parts of it were true. But it was all true. And as soon as I stopped deluding myself, I knew that. And I stopped deluding myself around the time Zachariah first showed up."

Sam can't help how he tenses at the name.

"I told." Chuck runs out of voice. Tries again. "I told him all about Mary," he confesses. "I'm the one who gave him the idea. I'm the. I told him. What he said to you in heaven, I-" he doesn't go on.

"Zachariah kicked you around. That wasn't your fault."

"I don't remember him doing that?" he insists. "I don't. Sometimes I don't remember things right unless I'm. Drinking. Or."

"You remember when you're buried under other histories. You told me some of it. I don't think you were in your head enough to remember telling me."

Chuck pulls a hand in to cover his mouth. "Tell me what I remembered," he requests, shocked and wide-eyed.

"Chuck," he rubs his back.

"We're not doing secrets," he pushes. "Sam, you know what it's like not to understand your own head-"

He cringes. "I know. Fuck. I know. I just. Chuck. It was pretty much torture. When you would try to protect us, when you would refuse to tell him, or when he knew you were lying, he would. He would take parts of your memory away. He'd let you drink and then. Kind of. Stage accidents," he pulls Chuck's hand away from his face to see the faint scars on his palm. To drive the point home.

The broken glass from the tumblers.

Chuck is silent. Opening and closing his hand.

Sam pushes the sheets back down under their arms and gets him to lay his head back down and curls Chuck's little body into himself. Runs his hands down to feel all of him, down his back and down his legs and up his back and to his sides, his shoulders. A short distance for big hands. All of Chuck's love and memories and words and help. All of it fits in here. He loves every inch. All of it is Sam's to protect, now. He is keeping this close and he suddenly wants the very thing Dean feared for him.

He wants some sort of psychic bridge between their minds so Chuck can come home to him, truly come home, and find a quieter spot to rest. He wants to go over to Chuck's head and roll the bad stuff into a carpet and drag it back and study it. Show it to Chuck until it's not scary anymore.

Oh god. He's so ready to be married.

"We're not gonna let anyone push us around or tell us what we're made of anymore," he promises Chuck. Pulls his hand down and kisses his mouth. "The binding is gonna work and we're gonna protect each other from those bastards, taking and changing things and fucking with our heads. I swear no one will ever hurt you. I swear."

"You can't really promise that, Sam."

"I can fucking try. You're mine."

Sam's cell phone buzzes a text. Chuck tucks himself into him while he reaches to grab it.

After a while, Chuck sits up to try to look at what he's staring at.

Sam's math was right:  
It's a list of dates from Cas.

He drops the phone to the sheets and turns to crawl over Chuck.

"April. Chuck, April. Chuck, I get to marry you in the spring," he holds his face and watches it sink in.

"Okay. Okay. We have to wait for next year?" he whines.

Sam smiles. "I don't care. I don't care. _I don't care_. I'm going to marry you in the spring."

Chuck closes his eyes. "Promise?"

Of course he promises. Soon he'll have a true, set date to come in there and rescue Chuck from his head. He gets to tie them together and keep him forever. He gets to give Chuck a name that doesn't come from his ungrateful parents. He will pick the best of those days and, in April, Sam will get a husband.

"I swear to you. April. Oh, sweetheart. April, I goddamn promise."

«»

They don't manage much on their own when they do visit the property together. Chuck tires faster than Sam does, so, instead of tackling the basement, they pick up materials and speak with companies to help Dean decide which to contract for the stuff they won't be able to do on their own.

He calls his brother up a couple days later. They've had more than a week on their own and, now that Sam has a date--

He's ridiculous. He can't stop smiling and he wants to see Dean and be this happy in his company. Productive and working and taking big steps into their future.

Then he gets a notice via email. And he gets a riot of fireworks in his belly, scared and excited and nervous and thrilled.

He needs Dean with him for this.

He leaves Chuck sleeping in their apartment. He'll see him again in the evening. When Sam comes downstairs, he requests that Dean drive in an entirely different direction.

Dean frowns but complies and Sam gives him directions to the post office.

It's quiet there, still super early in the morning. So he gets into the post office box he rented and pulls out a padded envelope and a box.

He pulls a knife to get the envelope open and nods to the box. Dean slices through the tape with his own blade.

He dumps a small amount of foam out on the electronic scale. And a box falls out with a receipt.

Sam shakes the envelope and drops the contents into his hand: a smaller envelope with a tiny baggie inside.

Dean curiously opens the box-from-a-box while Sam drops his from the envelope-from-the-envelope.

They're both silver rings.

Dean whistles over the one he opened. "Which is which?"

"That's the engagement ring," he swallows. "That's um. For clarity. Mental clarity. I don't actually know that those symbols are completely legit. At least one of them I couldn't find in any lore. But that ring looked the best. It um. It's."

He's at a loss.

Dean looks up at him. "It's nice, Sammy. It's real good."

He's starting to shake. So he hands the other over. "Need you to hang on to that one for me."

"Wedding ring? What does it do?"

"That was on one of the sites you found for me. It'll help him come back to himself sooner. So maybe. Maybe as it happens, he won't be gone all day."

"That'll be good. You know. Keeps you from being married to that zombie."

Okay. He gives Dean a really disappointed look.

"I mean. I'm just saying. It must suck to be with someone who kind of. Up and abandons you? Without even planning to."

Sam huffs a breath and chucks the padded envelope in the nearby trash. "Dean. You got something to say, here? If you're questioning-"

"I'm not, alright? I'm not," he takes up the tiny baggie and envelope and repackages the ring. Puts it in his inner pocket to keep safe.

Sam changes his mind and grabs open his jacket and snags it back out and puts it in his jeans.

Dean rolls his eyes.

Sam tosses the packing peanuts and takes up the little presentation box. He opens it back up.

Oh man.

He closes it.

He shouldn't feel this way about it. He's got this under control. He's not even doing this for real. Chuck was the one who had to ask for real. He's the one who had to take the leap.

"If you're gonna say something about how he checks out sometimes so he's a burden or something you can fucking save it."

"No. No, I know. I know how much good he's done for you, alright? Listen, Sam. I was there when he got you back from Persephone. I heard every word of it, okay? I saw him on the hunt to get you back. That guy would do anything for you. It just. It sucks that he can't stay in his own head. And. I'm still having some, like, hesitation about this whole. You know. Binding thing."

"I know you are. Don't act like _I'm_ not. It's my head and if anything goes wrong, for all we know, it could be me accidentally tripping into his mind when he's not ready for it. But we- Chuck and I want this," he sighs. "We keep talking about it. And it keeps feeling better. It keeps sounding more and more _right_. Okay? So. Just. It's between him and me. I know you can't go there," he says, tip-toeing around it. "But. Just because you and Cas can't, doesn't mean it's a bad thing. It just means, you know," he shrugs. "Cas is just that much more powerful, still."

Dean kind of rolls his eyes again and tosses the empty cardboard.

"How is that, by the way?" Sam aims for curiosity. "Being with someone who can lift you up and toss you around? I don't get to be that guy on my end."

Dean takes the box out of the trash and hurls it at his head and he laughs all the way back to the car.

«»

Long day of hard work.

Dean agrees that he's gotta bring Cas up next time. He thinks mostly Dean wants to see him casually pluck the entire maintenance bay from its foundations. He's completely positive that Cas's colossal strength is Dean's secret kink. Hilarious.

They got a lot out of the basement, but it was slow going, dangerous work in a blackened cavern of jagged edges. They watched and supervised as the towering new fence went up.

When Dean drops him off, Sam heads up and he's quiet going into the apartment. The lights are off but they leave the lights off a lot and the blinds all open, even when it's dark. You can't really see into their apartment from anywhere. And they like the light from outside. Even the low light at night.

Chuck insists on closing the bedroom door, even though they don't live with anyone else anymore. He did before, in his own apartment, too. He thinks it's the first step in not inviting creepiness into your life.

Sam's entire life is creepiness so he has no idea what he's talking about, but he likes the thought of Chuck being tucked in snug and secure and safe and quiet, so he doesn't argue, just smiles. Just leaves him to his shell.

And joins him there, now.

He's in the middle of the bed and nothing seems amiss. His phone is next to his hand on the pillow. Sam moves it to the nightstand and kisses his hand but he doesn't move.

He heads to the shower. He's dirty and dusty.

The whole property is as clear as it's gonna get. They already have some materials coming in. The only thing left on the property that is truly trashed, that they need to make a decision on, is the panic room.

It didn't survive as well as expected.

The next step is really for Cas to assess the damage and see if he can push the walls back into place. And Sam wants to completely cleanse the yard. Full-ritual, sage-burning, signs-n-sigils, candles and moonlight. He wants the place scrubbed.

When he and Dean left this evening, it no longer felt right to call it 'Bobby's place.'

Dean had stopped and corrected himself as they spoke.

It doesn't feel like Singer Salvage Yard anymore.

It just feels like an old, neglected lot. Waiting to be something.

Sam wants to show Chuck.

He wants to bring him up and show him that it's clear. No ghosts, no bones, no boxes buried in the yard.

Sam wants Chuck to feel the promise there.

When he crawls into bed, he straightens Chuck's legs out and slots their knees together. Wakes him up moving him into place. He doesn't startle, he's groggy. So he's not tense, either. He's been asleep for a while and that's good. Sam will be waking him up early.

Chuck blinks slow. "Prove you're you," he challenges.

Sam considers briefly. "I am your actual-literal significant other. Actual-literal giant squid. You're my actual-literal fiancé. It's pretty cool."

"Okay. How much do you hurt? Did you move a lot of stuff?"

"Did a lot of digging. Gonna go up and show you tomorrow, 'kay? Go back to sleep."

"Does it look like we're building yet?"

"Not yet. You'll see. Close your eyes."

"Put your hands under my shirt."

Sam does and that's exactly what it takes for Chuck to drop off again.

He should sleep, too, while he has the chance. But he makes a mental list of all the herbs and spells he wants to bring with tomorrow. He's gonna bring paper so they can really get down to planning the specifics of the yard layout. He wants to draw a map of the lot so they know where the workshop will go and how far the driveway will stretch and whether they're gonna leave or scrap the sheds. He wants to see the outer edges of the property and really feel what kind of room they've got to themselves.

Sam's jeans are on the chair where he folded and tossed them. The envelope is still in the pocket of his pants and it's well-thumbed and triple-creased by now. He has to remember to grab it before they go. He doesn't know how long he's gonna carry it around. But he'll give it back to Dean at some point so Chuck won't come across it. So it will be a surprise in April.

The little box is another matter.

The little box is in his jacket. His jacket is on the back of the chair.

He has to take that out and put it someplace for safekeeping. For the right moment. Because, somehow, he doesn't have Chuck's guts. And he needs to plan the perfect night for them. So he can be quiet and alone like Chuck wanted for himself. So he can ask when it's romantic and dark and everything it should be.

He knows the answer already, but that somehow doesn't spoil the idea.

The little box across the room sleeping in his jacket pocket keeps him up for another half hour.

Then Chuck's fingers tug at his sleeve in his sleep. And he falls in love again while he falls asleep again.

«»

They set out early with their coffees and Chuck asks about all they've done so far and tries to accurately predict the timeline for completion by scheduling workdays around every apocalypse he can think of. When Belial bubbles to the surface, that's about a one-month hunt, best case scenario. When a witch bent on bringing the endtimes casts a spell that starts killing off the rest of the world's bees, that's only about three days because Cas will be _super_ angry. When a fallen angel rises out of the suburbs, tired if his new life, and decides to convince humanity that he's the next coming of Christ, that's about a two-week hunt. "And so I'm pretty sure we're still talking more than a year out. I just need a permanent structure before the zombie uprising, Sammy. I'd prefer to have ample time to contract somebody to build walls and turrets. Something impenetrable. I must protect the delicate atmosphere around your hair," he declares.

"I have no idea what to say to any of that," Sam marvels.

"Don't say anything. Just feed me breakfast," he polishes off his coffee and puts the lid back on, wedges it between the seat and the door and leans way over to plant a kiss on Sam's face. "I'm kind of excited. I'm expecting it to be this same image in my head every time we come up but from what you told me I'm just! Yeah. Excited for a surprise. Like, I donno. I don't know what I could start doing with you guys at this point in the process but I feel like you're gonna give me something big to do," he enthuses. "Like, I donno, the permits or the garden or researching the solar or something. I don't know! I just like this. I like not coming up half the time. I mean, true, I miss you, but then I get to be here and it's all changed again!" He suddenly tries to rein it in. Clears his throat. "So anyway. Just yeah."

It's incredible. He thinks he must look like he's not paying attention, just driving and smiling and shaking his head. But he doesn't have _good words_ enough to convey how boppy and excitable Chuck is over them basically having finished taking the trash out. He wants to be a part of the process. Wants to _do stuff_ and Sam's insides just swell like a marshmallow in the microwave. He didn't actually think about giving Chuck a specific job, but now they should definitely plan one. He wants Chuck to have a reason to be there all the time. He doesn't want him to feel like he's inadequate or in the way. And, of course, he wants it to feel like Chuck's house, too. If he had his hands on the foundation and in the walls in some way --

Well. It's really _Harry Potter_ of him to be thinking this. But the more their happiness in the house and their love for each other is a part of the construction, it feels like it can only help, you know? Like if love, that deep in fact and in spirit, were embodied in the house, it could only be a good thing, right? Even if it doesn't do shit in real life. Even if there's no such thing as love magic.

If he.  
Kinda.  
_Wants_ to believe in that?

No harm in it.

They swing through town to a little family place that opens early and get breakfast burritos and more coffee.

It's about the time they're heading back to the car with the food that his stomach drops.

He shoves his wallet back into his pocket and his hands into his jacket-

where the box still sits.

Oh fuck.

He tries to conceal his panic as he holds Chuck's door open for him. Where is he gonna hide it? In the car? Out on the lot it could get lost anywhere. He'd intended to leave it hidden back at the apartment (high atop a light fixture where Chuck couldn't reach). He needs to-

Chuck launches into a story he read about in the news. He's been keeping a better eye on South Dakota local sites now that they're going to be residents. But he seems to lose his grasp on the subject as they roll in, close the gate, and leave the car.

He was pretty ruthless, overall, but there were parts of the foundation that Dean decided to try and save. Like over by where the kitchen used to be.

Chuck settles on the steps just absorbing the view in the rising light.

Sam settles next to him and pulls everything out of the bag, piling the foil bundles on a stack of napkins.

Chuck's still quiet as they start eating.

Sam sets his food aside at one point in favor of his coffee. Thumbs with lingering concern at the lump still sitting in his jacket pocket.

As they keep eating, Chuck finally seems to agree: "It's totally different. I mean. It looks like something new out here. The bay is still in place, but with the paint stripped it looks like. Just." He shrugs, chews for a while. "I'm just surprised. It's completely unfamiliar. It's like a blank slate." He looks to Sam. "It's kinda fucking great."

Sam huffs a laugh and.

Everything is new. It kinda belongs to them now and his insides are shivery with the awe in Chuck's eyes. He's so pleased with everything and there's basically nothing here. But he went on talking miles and miles of shit in the car. About how the house would turn out in some fantasy world where their family is the last to keep everyone alive. About how there will be hunts, real big, bad ones and a lot of short, painful ones. About how he expects to be with Sam through all of it. About how, even in overdramatic scenarios, even when their perspectives and lives are changed, he still plans to come back here with Sam and keep building. He doesn't care if Sam has him hold the ladder or install fixtures.

He wants to be here.

Which is great.  
Because there's no place to sleep and Sam's already at the point where he doesn't wanna leave.

Sam loads the trash into the paper bag and picks a little square of tomato off Chuck's sleeve.

"Thanks. Can I see the panic room?"

"I'll take you, but it's still pretty dangerous down there," he takes the foil and napkins from him and balls it all up, takes it to the car.

Chuck stays on the steps with his coffee. So Sam could either dig through the trunk for the stuff he brought and find a small nook in there to hide the box.

Or.

He pulls his jacket tight around himself and heads back over. And in front of where Chuck sits on the steps.

Sam tries not to stop breathing as he comes to kneel in front of him.

There's not one single goddamn voice of reason in his head right now. Nothing telling him he already knows this will work. It's all white-out nerves and near-panic, regardless. Which is weird considering what he does for a living and irrational considering the circumstances.

Chuck frowns and puts his coffee to the side again and starts asking something.

And Sam fishes the box out of his pocket, clenching it in his fist.

"Chuck. Is it okay if I do this?"

"Um. What are we-"

He's sat forward so Sam can open the box and hold it on top of his knee.

"Just. Wanted to make sure," Sam licks his lips. "Just wanted to know if I asked. If you'll. If you'll please say you'll marry me?"

The whole world goes silent for like a solid minute.

Chuck stares at the ring, bewildered.  
Chuck stares at Sam, alarmed.  
Chuck stares at the ring.  
And fucking bursts into tears.

And he doesn't know why, but that's kind of better than 'yes'. He closes his eyes and can't stop smiling and drags Chuck forward to pull his limbs around himself and hold him close and laugh onto his hair.

Chuck hangs against him. Eventually says, "Yeah. Yes," through snot and tears. "Can I have my box?"

So Sam gives it to him and he just holds it in his hand and sobs harder for a minute.

"Lemme put it on you, hermit crab?" he asks into the side of his head before kissing there.

"Yeah," he whines. "Oh god I can't believe I fell for this. I got totally suckered in. I'm such dork. I'm fucking crying. I can't believe I fell for that."

Sam gets the ring on him and Chuck closes the box and holds it tight in his fist.

"Can I keep my box?"

"You can keep the box. I didn't know it would be so important. I would have found you a better box."

"I like this one." He sobs again so Sam has to kiss him and move them around. "I love our dirt. I love you," Chuck says. "This is really happening."

Sam nods against his head and they look to the orange of the sun rising. He lets it simmer within him. How good it feels. Chuck loves this dirt with him - collectively _theirs_. _Our_ dirt. Chuck loves this mess Sam got him into and he loves Sam and he's going to wear something Sam gave him. It will go with Chuck everywhere forever. Sam is allowed. Allowed this and allowed to touch and allowed to think _I pulled this out of the fire. He is mine. No one else knew to treasure him so here I am and he l o v e s me and this spit of oil-stained sand I learned to hunt on._

"Thank you," Chuck sighs.

"Thank _you_. You're the one who does the hard stuff. You asked me first. You kissed me first."

"You asked to move in. You're building a _house_. You saved me. You found me and saved me and you care if my head survives. I'm so nuts about you," he says on an exhale. "No offense, I'm proud of you for saving everyone, but you're the best human there is. The rest of 'em I could take or leave."

You know. If that's true? If it's got any truth to it. Then Chuck is the one who noticed. Who saw all the mistakes he made along the way and the reasons behind them and still finds what Sam did to be essential and meaningful.

Somebody noticed.  
It made somebody want to be his friend.  
It made someone love him.  
It made Chuck wanna marry him.

His decisions, all the damnable ones and all the ones he tried _so hard_ to make right, all the lives he saved and even the fuck-ups he's made? Chuck understands them as parts of his whole and he... goddamn. He fucking _cried_ because Sam wants to marry him back. He asked in the first place and it means so much to him that Sam asked back that he's clinging and grateful. "Well, I'm very sorry to announce that there won't be any repeat performances of the world saving," he says. "I have to make sure I'm in your bed every night from now on. That's not compatible with self-sacrificing missions to other realms."

Chuck takes a deep breath like that's actually a relief. It makes Sam feel like a bit of a fuck for leaving that wide open as a legitimate concern in Chuck's life.

That's a duty for the kids to inherit.

Though, if they teach them right, none of them should have to.

Chuck opens and closes his box. Turns his palm to look at his ring on his hand.

"I'm hoping it does what it says it will. It's supposed to help you keep your head clear. I couldn't completely authenticate it. But. I also thought it would look good on you. It does. I wanna just. I just want to keep you. I just need you to be so mine. Just mine."

Chuck is huddled into his front and still clutching his box. He looks up and he looks the way he did when it was him kneeling at Sam's feet in the Starbucks.

Oh god.  
He'd do anything for Chuck. Any-fucking-thing.

This is suddenly a little more real than it has been up to this point. Sinking in deeper. Like the second time they sat here and Chuck said he just wanted to be his _husband_.

Sam has no idea why he just dropped to his knees when five minutes ago he was going to hide the box and plan it out for a month.

But it feels like it might be for the same reason.

It's fucking horrendously unfair that he had to wait for someone like this. Of all the unfair fucking things that have fucking plagued him in this world because of his stupid goddamn lineage and his fucking goddamn destiny.

He feels like _seething_. He feels like burning things down. He feels fucking viciously angry because some idiot world-ending mess might try to pull them apart and kill them before he gets this itty-bitty goddamn piece of as-close-as-a-Winchester-gets to happily ever after.

There's _ages_ between now and April. He could lock them in the apartment and curse and pray all he wants. It wouldn't matter. Something would try to wedge them apart, anyway.

He pulls Chuck in. Almost crunches his arms between them.

His life is unrelenting. There's no hiding from it. He's just going to have to make sure they're ready to fight like hell to get back to one another. They might have to be ready for that for the rest of their lives.

Chuck knows that.  
Which makes it at least a little easier.

He _so super should not_ be angry right now. He should feel beautiful and whole and optimistic.

But this place will eventually have to be a fort. Zombie apocalypse or no.

The point is this:  
Sam is going to fight to keep this. Keep their engagement, keep his fiancé. Keep their marriage, keep his husband. Keep their home, keep their family.

He just signed up for another tour of duty in a different land.

He's fine with it. Maybe he really was made for this, so _fine_.

Own it.

Chuck didn't want out. He didn't ask for it. If he'd needed it, Sam could have found a way to follow. But he didn't ask to get out. Charlie just helped them decide to move to the benches.

They're coaching instead of starting lineup. That's fine.

It's fucking fine.

He can handle it. And he can handle it _because_ Chuck says they can.

Because he's not alone in left field anymore.

Because Chuck has his back. Will always have his back. There's something resonating in his fucking bones and soul and blood and _history_ telling him so.

Some small, sharp corner of his mind is starting to wonder aloud if they even _need_ a binding to keep each other close and safe.

But.  
One more layer of protection can't hurt.

He has so much more reading to do. Months of work to pick apart and retranslate in that book.

And then this. Their dirt. Their wide land.

Chuck unsticks from Sam's hold and squirms his arms up to link over his shoulders and that's perfect. He can bring him flush and haze out on his warm little body and he's free to think about him naked a hundred times a day. Free to act on what he wants every time he needs to, even if all he can get back is a kiss or a head-petting or that freaked-out close-up stunned-n-shaken look Chuck gets when he's suddenly very, very aware that Sam fucking Winchester is touching him and it's not going to stop and it's gonna get even better when they're not in polite company.

Sam's gonna get married in front of his family. So they're simply going to have to get used to the idea that he and Chuck hold each other close just so they can _breathe_ sometimes.

He is _not_ letting that slip anymore. Dean's weird blushing thing isn't Sam's anxiety to deal with.

He's got Chuck's anxieties to work on. That's a little more central to his life, now. He did all he could for Dean. Cas has to work with Dean, now.

Sam kisses Chuck and sways them a little. Chuck's hand soothes over his neck and wanders up to his dented ear.

He can hear thoughts in that motion, but not full sentences. Their shared language is not unspoken yet and he hopes it doesn't float off that way. He likes to hear Chuck. They can get quieter as they get closer, but he still wants to hear him unspool words out into the world.

His fingers run over and over Sam's ear.

"I'm not used to it being okay that I change somebody's life. I've been trying not to do that since I was a kid. Trying not to make waves. Trying not to make an impact. I kind of. Exited my family as quietly as I could."

"I know," Sam recognizes that. "You kind of faded out of their lives. Kind of faded into mine. Wove in and I didn't realize what was happening until you were a part of my days. But I want you to change me and you are. You're changing me for the better. I want this," he insists. Because Chuck needs to hear it.

"Try all you want," he sounds exhausted, "but I'm not gonna start crying again."

Sam laughs into his skin and kisses there.

"You're beautiful when you're asking me to marry you. You're amazing," he says with an oh-crap, dead seriousness.

"I copied the idea off of somebody," he says like admitting it.

"And you cried, too. We're just this amazing, emotional wreck. You'd never know we face doom-and-gloom on a weekly basis."

It's because of the doom-and-gloom but nobody needs to mention that. "Wanna work on our dirt?"

"Damn, do I ever."

"Cleansing ritual. Smudge sticks. Dawn of a new day."

Chuck straightens up and pulls back and rotates his little box in his hands a few more times. "If you have chalk I can remember some of the symbols. Or, well, I guess I could use anything, really."

"I have all the stuff, it's in the bags. You want me to keep your box someplace safe?"

Chuck considers it for another moment.

Sam holds out his hand for it.

Chuck presses it deliberately into his palm. "I guess it can go in the bags," he says, reluctant. "Where was it hiding before?"

"Uh. A mailbox. I only. Um. I only got it yesterday."

Chuck rolls his eyes and shrugs to stand.

"We're awful. I couldn't hold on to yours for three days, you couldn't even do it for two."

"I did make it past the 24-hour mark," he takes the hand that Chuck offers to help him up with, even if he doesn't need it.

«»

They sketch symbols in the dirt. Write them on the foundation, the fence, the trees. They spray holy water, light sage and candles and incense.

They bless the rolling water of the creek.

Back past the target-practice trees, there is a noticeable ease on the wind when they repeat a prayer over the northernmost corner of the land.

Sam looks down at Chuck like, _did you feel that??_

He nods. So they bury a lit candle to a saint and say the words seven more times before they can actually hear the surrounding wildlife from where they're standing.

"Something was buried here."

"Or cursed here. Who knows," Chuck shrugs. "It'll take forever for us to find all of Bobby's shit."

Chuck finds one tree to the east has anti-angel sigils carved in it. "Okay. Do we think something's _in_ the tree?" he circles it. "I don't see any hollows."

"Maybe between the roots. Maybe," he looks up. "In a nest? Or?" He tries to find an easy way to climb up.

He gets about half-way and something creaks. "Stop, let's get a ladder," Chuck says.

"Nah, just catch me."

"Fuck you, I'm not watching you break y-- Sam. Sam, stop."

He looks down at him.

Chuck points up. "Other side."

He doesn't see anything.

"Well, I do. Please come back down. Go get a ladder."

"Maybe I can just shoot it down," he says hopping out and to the ground with a minimum of fuss.

"Three minutes in a fucking tree you think you're a spry little twelve-year-old with a slingshot. That's real charming," he deadpans.

"I guess I'm getting the ladder."

He holds it while Chuck climbs up because he still can't see what he's talking about.

Chuck requests his knife and he hands it up. Some twine falls from above and he comes down with a tightly-wrapped package. It's in beige plastic grocery bags that made it blend in with the branches kind of like a fucked-up log. "It was just tied on top of one," he explains.

Underneath the plastic is brown shipping paper with sigils drawn in black-red fingerpainted blood. More warding against angels.

A thick roll of photocopied pages is rubber-banded around two angel blades, pointing up, pointing down.

"Secret stash to protect him from heaven?"

"Sounds like Bobby's typical brand of paranoia." Sam considers the stash. He has no idea what book the pages are from. They're in a bit of disarray. Might be from the book Cas stole when he was trying to get into Purgatory. The plastic is weathered like it might have been out here that long. "Here's a question: should we leave it?"

Chuck considers the tree. The sigils stacked down the trunk. "It's essentially banning your brother-in-law from one entire side of the property," he stands to run his hand down the carvings. "They're well-done. It's a pretty decent stash spot. We don't really need two extra blades right now. I mean, the kids are all armed, right?"

"Donno if they all have these, though."

Chuck doesn't reply. He considers the unwrapped package and the tree again.

"We can think about it," Sam offers.

Chuck shakes his head. "I don't like thinking something could push Cas away from here."

What he means is that their whole family should feel like they belong here if they want to come. And Dean wouldn't like it. Hiding stuff from Cas again.

He stands and tugs him in and kisses his head. "We can always make another stash spot if we have to."

Chuck kept his knife. He carves lines through each sigil until his hand is tired, then Sam takes over striking them in the opposite direction. Cas will still sense the symbols, but they won't prevent him from coming to this side of the property.

They take the ladder back into the fenced area and Sam climbs down into the crater of the basement so he can help Chuck down. He keeps his hand climbing over the remaining debris.

Best they can figure, the fire and the collapse of the house did the panic room no favors. Then the equipment that Jody hired rolled overhead to haul most the trash out. There's a definite caved-in slant to one half of the room's wall. The tiled devils trap in the ground is broken. Rain has come in and washed the salt from the walls.

Chuck feels them. Puts his hand up against the iron.

Sam uses his cell-phone to light the way.

"I saw so much of this place."

Sam keeps an eye on him but he doesn't get a lost, far-away look. Eventually he tugs him out. There's not much to see. Chuck swings the locker door open on his way out and a cooked old shotgun falls away out of the black.

It's past lunch so they lock the fence and go to get a motel room, find some grub.

Chuck is quiet. Thinking.

Sam stops him before they leave the room. "Just gotta check that you're okay."

"Yeah," Chuck sounds nonplussed.

"All that stuff was kinda weird."

"Yeah. Also this," he holds up his hand.

Sam smiles and kisses the ring on his finger.

"Just," Chuck doesn't actually ask for it, he only presses up and against him and they end up kissing for a while. Hugging for a while. Listening to their stomachs rumble but feeling too comfortable to leave each other alone.

"You look beautiful today," Chuck says nonsensically.

"You, too, sweetheart." He's in so fucking deep.

"Wanna kiss you again."

So they do for a while longer.

For once, they actually do get tossed some dirty looks when they walk into the restaurant holding hands and when Sam kisses him over the table.

The scoffing and tisking makes them laugh.

Really it's just amazing how many motherfuckers don't know what they're missing in their lives.

«»

Chuck's done writing for the day. He pushed everything to the center of the table and abandoned the entire area to watch a movie on tv that's already half-finished and is running with commercials. He doesn't seem interested in coming back to work.

Sam's actually really interested in his own research. He's looking up the credentials of the gods they'll be calling forth for the ceremony. Their stories are hard to find but fascinating when he finally digs them up.

One goddess' tale has her lover running off to save the world until she says "stay" and, it turns out, the world doesn't end. They stick together and the world does not end.

Sometimes Sam hears words whispered in the back of his skull. _Don't go today. Don't go today._

Sometimes it jolts him awake at night- the fact that Chuck wouldn't let him disappear without a fight.

Chuck would - _has_ \- taken up arms to get him back.

Sam takes the two books he's working with over to the couch. He settles at the other end and it's only a few minutes before Chuck creeps over and presses close. And not at all a big deal to adjust around him. Accept Chuck into his space so he can still read and Chuck can still flip between two crappy movies.

"Is 5:30 too early for dinner?" he asks when one of the movies ends.

"Yeah. But. I mean, there won't be lines anywhere yet."

Chuck relaxes. Digs fingers into the upper muscles of his ticky arm. "Get... get your books and your shoes. And get ready to go. You can keep reading, I wanna find this place across- well. Like, a few towns over."

"I can drive," he blinks down at him.

Chuck smiles pleased and indulgent. "You're reading. Read. You can read to me out loud in the car."

Sam kisses his head. "Okay." And gets up to get his stuff.

Chuck takes care of everything. He finds a cool Brazilian place to eat dinner and he does all the driving. He stops at a freestanding ice cream shop so it's an official date. They mill around eating ice cream in absolutely obscene colors. Watch the kids around them do flips off the curbs with their skateboards between eating ice pops and refueling on sugar.

He lets Sam tell him all the details he's worked out and Chuck only has one question: "So, did you find anything dangerous yet? Anything that might. You know. Not let us go through with it?"

"No." He throws his sticky napkins away and circles back to press him against the car. Kiss his mouth. "It's not just wishful thinking. I really can't find anything insidious about this. I'm still worried about it biting you back. But aside from that, it seems to be centered around pure intentions."

"It kinda seemed to me like it was for two people to just make a go of it and decide they had what it takes to protect each other."

Sam nods. "That's what I'm getting. It wouldn't be the first time something so little and uncomplicated completely pissed off the host of heaven."

"Yeah, two punkass boys managed that pretty well," he agrees, wry.

«»

Jody is careful, but not jumpy. So when she thinks some weirdness has appeared outside town, she calls Sam before she heads out to investigate.

"Somebody left a body decapitated," she says when Sam switches it to speaker.

"Okay?"

"Well. I'm in the habit of checking them for _gingivitis_ when they come in like that, now. Not that we get a lot of decapitations. But. Makes me nervous. You understand."

"Yeah," Sam says, wry. He watches Chuck sit next to him and pull up his email on the laptop. He explained the story to Chuck a while back, of how Jody ganked one of Alex's fake brothers and that's how she ended up in her care. He's slightly frowny but he pulls up the report Jody emailed and Sam hands over his glasses so he can read.

"I mean, if it's another hunter in the area, I can probably assume it's already taken care of, right? And if it were you boys, or the kids, I'd know. You guys would tell me." Sam's just nodding at his phone so she presses, " _Right?_ "

"Right. Yeah, of course. We would. Um. Just to make sure? I'll call Dean, but he's supposed to be working a case with them in South Carolina. Probably it'll be another hunter and, in that case, um. You might not wanna approach him alone." Chuck waves a hand in his vision and reaches for his own phone. He nods and Chuck gets up to make his own call.

"I need to see the scene, though. I need to make sure, myself, that it only looked like there was one vamp," she insists.

"I. Jody, I really think-- look. As much as I'm sure you've got this, I would feel better if we could get you some backup," he tries.

She sighs a breath over the line. "Honestly, I'd feel better with backup, too, yeah. I don't know that I exactly speak the right language. If I encounter this guy, is there some kinda code-word you all use?"

He honestly can't tell if she's joking. "Just, uh. Don't mention the word 'Winchester' - they might not kill you."

Oh, he can _hear_ her disappointed glare over the line. "You don't play nice is what I'm getting from this," she deadpans.

"Ugh I-," he blows out a breath, "hold on one sec."

Claire's voice, tinny in the kitchen.

"All of you?" Chuck checks. "Jody's got a thing in South Dakota."

"Hold on," Claire says, far away.

"Yo," Dean comes on. "What about Jody?"

"You've got all the kids?"

"Yeah. Something up?"

"Don't suppose you really keep in contact with any vamp hunters?"

"Oh. Um. Walking... hold on. KRISSAYY!" Dean shouts and Chuck flinches at the phone.

"Hunter conference call," Sam says over the line to Jody. "Hold up, we're gonna see if the kids know anyone who hunts vamps in your area."

Krissy gets on the line chewing gum. "What's up ground-Chuck?"

"What the fuck," Chuck mutters, "Uh. Hey, Krissy. You guys are in the anti-vamp game. You all happen to have any connections?"

"Mmmmaybe. Why?"

"The Dakotas?"

"Well. We don't know where anyone lives, specifically. We know Larry Thorne. The last time we were around there, we bumped into him. He only hunts vamps and wolves. He's a sniper so he shoots first. But. I don't know. We don't know a lot of other people. We stay out of their way, they stay out of ours."

"Wouldn't be able to call anyone?" he tries one more time.

"Wouldn't know who to call. You lookin' for back-up?"

"We're looking for someone who might be dumping vamp corpses."

"Oh. Anyone I've ever met cleans up after themselves. Even you guys do that. I've never really seen someone fail to put a body to rest," she actually sounds somewhat disturbed by the concept.

So it's probably not someone they've met. But at least they've got one name. He shakes his head at Chuck.

"Thanks, Krissy. Thanks, Dean."

"Yeah, here's Claire," Dean says.

"I don't need to- uh. Hi, again," he shakes his head and takes it off speaker.

Sam wanders back to the computer. "Larry Thorne. That's the only name the kids could give us. But Krissy mentioned she doesn't know anyone who wouldn't put someone to rest. It's a good point. If this is a hunter, it might be someone who's too old to be stooping over a shovel for four-to-six feet."

"What do you mean, 'if it's a hunter'?" she asks, wary.

"I mean." He cringes. "I mean, it's not out of the question for a feud to blow up between vamps. They know how to kill each other. You know, nothing's stopping one vamp from decapitating another."

She sighs over the line again. "What about this Larry Thorne character? I'm doing a search now and-- oh, crap."

"Krissy said he's a-"

"Was an army sniper," Jody fills in. "I wouldn't even see him coming."

"You need eyes on your back," he decides. "Don't go without us."

She takes an unsteady breath. "I've got Alex. She doesn't really- I mean, she isn't crazy about hunting. And she's not real comfortable with your whole family set-up. But she knows vamps, that's for sure."

"Okay, well, it won't be the whole family. How about just me and Chuck? We'll come in, back you up, make sure this is another hunter, and back away. Let him do his thing."

"Or her," Jody says.

"Or her," he agrees. "How about this: you've got a few hours before we can be up there. Grab us some dead man's blood and we'll meet you near the crime scene? We can follow it from there."

Chuck comes to wave in his face. " _Alex_ ," he mouths, worried.

"Alex still isn't thrilled about the hunting, I don't think it would be a great idea to bring her. She might not even get into it at all. Maybe someday-"

"Her blood," Chuck says. "Don't you think they ever had houseguests? Fuckbuddies? Friends? Distant relatives? We have to keep track of her," he frets. "Others might know her blood. You said they fed on her for years."

It's a little more than likely, that's true.

"Jody, do you know where Alex is, now?"

"She heads here around this time. Are you saying I should bring her with?"

"I'm saying you should get some vials of vamptonite and _wait_ for us. Okay? I swear we'll be up, soon. Chuck's right. We can't risk that someone's on to her scent from... previous experience," he cringes again.

Jody's silent for a long moment. "Send me your status. Tell me when you're on the road. When you enter the state. I'm gonna try to see if Larry Thorne has any traceable credit transactions leading him into the area. And. I'll get the blood."

"Thank you. I swear we'll be right up. Promise."

"Alright. Don't get caught breaking the speed limit in my jurisdiction, at least." She hangs up.

Chuck clunks back down into his chair and they set their phones aside.

"You okay coming with?" Sam takes up his hand before it goes to the keyboard again.

"Of course," Chuck shrugs. "Just. I should probably hang back with Alex. I'm an okay last-resort when it comes to fighting. We keep her safe and you guys find out what's going on over there. Since Krissy mentioned it, it worries me that no one buried the guy."

"Yeah. Me, too. Could be an older hunter."

"Could be a blood feud."

"All meaning intended."

"Yeah."

Sam pulls him close. "Gimme a kiss?" He takes it from him more than anything. "Maybe you and Alex can camp out in the maintenance bay. There are a lot of sharp tools lying around, it's hard to get into, and no one would suspect it."

"Our first house guest," Chuck smiles.

"She won't find it five-star but you'll both be safe."

Chuck clunks in against him. "I'll pack the clothes. You get the rest. You've already got vamp blood on the black jacket."

"Yeah, get that one for me?"

Sam's phone buzzes across the table. "D" on the screen.

He kisses Chuck's head and lets him go. Picks up the phone.

"You got a vamp problem?" Dean asks.

"Jody might. We're gonna go check on her."

"We'll be up as soon as we can. Want I should send Charlie up first? We might be able to spare her."

"Fewer the better, I think. Alex isn't..." he trails off, starts unplugging their electronics and stacking things.

Dean sighs. "Yeah, I know." It's kind of depressing to Dean that Alex is still on the fence about where she wants to end up. She never feels like she belongs at school but she's been trying to fit in with every crowd. The partiers, the good kids, the stoners, the band geeks, the drama kids. She's trying to find a place so hard. (Almost like she doesn't want her place to be the one where she fits. Somewhere between Jody and Claire. Claire who has accepted this and wants to go the Winchester route and Jody who needs to appear to live in the real world.)

Dean wants her to know how to defend herself. He wants her to learn how to fight. At the very least.

But when she visits with all of them or they all meet up, Alex is noticeably uncomfortable. She came from a 'family' setting and look how that ended.

It bums Dean out. He tries to convince her that it's a loose and non-traditional thing. Claire's really the only one of the younger set who have chosen to stay in the bunker, so far - sign on and make it permanent.

They're still working on the Alex issue.

"Listen. We'll take care of this. I'll call if we need you. Meanwhile," he looks over his shoulder to the bedroom, drops his voice. "Chuck's got this weird, trusting way of talking to the girls. Maybe I should ask him to try something. Try saying something to her."

Dean mulls this over. "He does do the words thing."

"Kinda his specialty," Sam agrees.

"Ask, I guess," Dean agrees. "Don't push. I don't want anyone to push Alex. She might be more like you than anything. She might find a place yet. Or go to college and make her own." Dean breathes down the line. "If he can get a better read if it's one way or the other with her. I mean. We're not totally inept. We can get her a day job. Get her into college. Get her in the library taking over for Charlie. Get a gun in her hand. Whatever. We can do it. She's got people. She's not alone."

Dean just doesn't want her to feel alone. She's got Jody but it's not always great between them and, if nothing else, if she needs to get air, run off, take some time? She should know she has the bunker. Or Sam and Chuck - she's got them, too. She has places to go. People to go with.

"We'll do what we can. I gotta get some blades."

"Yeah. Call. Lemme know."

"Yeah."

«»

They meet for dinner at a diner outside of town.

"I've explained the whole situation to her," Jody says up front.

"My- they never left a hunter alive. When we came across them, there were legendary names or whatever. But none I've heard recently," Alex says. Shrugs. "Besides yours, of course."

"Couldn't find Thorne," Jody adds. "His records stopped a couple years back. May be he's not even alive. Or no longer feels like being on the radar."

Sam sighs as they sit down with their menus. "So the plan is, you and me hit the crime scene, Sheriff," he nods to her, "Chuck doesn't come with if he doesn't have to. He'll hang back in the car. Alex? We're not gonna push you either way, but if there's a possibility someone else has ever gotten your scent-"

"There is," she admits, running her fingers over and over the end of her shirt sleeve. "There is. So. I don't know."

"You wanna see the scene? Tell us what you think?"

Jody gives him a _look_ for this, but he doesn't take it back.

"Am I sitting in the car with him if I don't go?" she nods to Chuck.

"At first, yeah," Sam admits. "Then Jody and I go hunting." He looks to Jody. "Figure we set them up at the lot until we're done."

"Your house?" Jody squints at him.

"It's not much but it's a place to lay low."

"With sharp objects," Chuck throws in, because he likes that bit.

Jody looks to Chuck and he knows what she's thinking: if Alex makes a break for it because she doesn't trust the situation, or a vamp finds them, he doesn't look as if he's capable of much.

"He knows what he's doing. And if nothing else, he knows how to run and hide. He's... studied our work more than anyone," Sam shrugs.

"I wrote the book on it, actually. I can't say I'm your safest bet but I really like _not dying_ ," he affirms.

Alex snorts.

«»

Alex wants to see the scene, too. She steadies and prepares herself and she says so at the end of dinner. So they take both cars up to the property where the body was found.

Jody has a UC parked up the road. She was too spooked by finding fangs to put any uniforms on the scene and it's easier to hide undercover guys on the budget. She sends them to go get their dinner and lets both cars in under the tape.

"You staying in the car?"

"If Alex is going, I'm going," Chuck says. And he has to steady himself, too but he does it by rolling his engagement ring over his bony knee.

Sam makes him take his angel blade with. He gets another out of the trunk for Alex. One of them that they found in the tree.

"She should keep this," Sam explains to Jody. "Angel blades work on vamps, demons, other angels," he frowns, shoulders his bag, "all sorts of things."

She hefts the weight of it, cringing a little. "Not sure I really want it."

Chuck reveals his own in his coat. "I know the feeling," he frumps.

Alex keeps it in her jacket.

The crime scene is bloody as all hell.

"They did already determine there's more than one source of blood here. How many, they couldn't tell me. At least three people. The blood was, uh," she fingerquotes, " _corrupted_ and they couldn't get the samples to match properly."

Right.

Alex wrinkles her nose. "I can um. I can tell more than one person fed here. Don't ask me how. That just-- I can just tell."

There are blade marks on the wall. Two bullet holes in portions of the flimsy wood paneling that were actually ripped from the wall.

"No slugs. They took everything," Jody says. The place really is suspiciously bare. Reminds him of the time they were hunting for Crowley's dispatcher, Ellsworth. Cas cleaned up after his crew, making the scene too-stripped, too free of evidence.

The scene just doesn't tell them enough. Though that fact, alone, may tell them something.

"Alex," Chuck goes to her side. "What else does your brain tell you that your eyes aren't seeing?"

"I'm not a- a vampire psychic," she protests. "I can't just close my eyes and tell you how many there were."

From the look of her?  
She probably can.  
She just doesn't want that to be true.

Alex had these guys hunting right at her shoulder, right on her back, breathing at her neck and making noise in the night all while she grew up.

She doesn't want to know what her instincts are telling her.

So. Chuck starts throwing out random assumptions. "Had to be like," he frowns looks around the room. "Five guys. Five big guys."

From the weapons spread, the damage, Sam would call that accurate.

Alex's jaw goes tight.  
She wanders to a doorway. The door is open and the path is perfectly clear.

She puts her hand to the wood of the door.

Vaguely-rounded, splintered indentations. Of a height with her own shoulder.

"Seven," Chuck says. "Five dudes, two women."

Alex seems more comfortable with that assessment.

"But it was a fight, not a feeding," Chuck says, and watches her.

Sam and Jody watch their slow progress around the house.

Assumption by assumption, Chuck leads Alex to the answers she doesn't really wanna give.

Jody eyes him and he just nods at his fiancé. Because, hey, look at him, he's pretty fucking good.

He gets Alex to tell the whole story by telling the fictional version.

«»

Chuck settles back in the car fretting that he pushed Alex too much.

Sam settles back in the car dying to touch him.

"Thank you. Goddamnit. Thank you so much. That was so perfect," Sam praises. He collects Chuck's fidgety hand and kisses it.

"We still don't really have enough information to figure any of this out. For all we know there are still six more feuding vamps out there."

"I don't care, Chuck. This is more than the empty room we hand to work with. We know what Alex can see now. You pulled her instincts to the surface."

"What if she ends up hating me for it?"

"And what if listening to those instincts saves her life someday?" Sam counters.

Chuck stares at the dashboard. Then decides, "Considering I have to spend the night hiding out with her and 'someday' may be a lot further away than this evening? I'm gonna go with her ending up hating me for it."

"Listen, you glass-half-empty motherfucker," Sam grins and tugs on his hand, "she's gonna love you. Maybe not as much as our puppy, Flipper, but she's still gonna know how cool you are. Will you still try and talk to her for Dean?"

He grumbles. "Maybe."

Good enough. Sam starts the car and heads toward the property, tailing Jody. "When we get back to you two in a few hours, make sure to tell me which sea creature she is."

"Oh, I already know that," Chuck says, but doesn't tell.

«»

The way the slugs were removed from the wall tells Sam that the person who didn't wanna leave them behind both had the strength to rip the wall apart with their bare hands, and that they couldn't risk the bullets showing up in evidence.

His money is actually on Krissy's sniper.

Before they leave the property, Sam looks up information on Thorne by connecting remotely to Charlie's archive.

She calls a few minutes in.

"Hey, you're on speaker. Me, Jody, Alex, Chuck. We're looking into-"

"This creepy Thorne guy, yeah. Hey, ladies!!"

Alex smiles and wanders over. "Hey, Charlie."

"Hiya, Charlie. We heard you're in the Carolinas?" Jody asks.

"Yeah. Not my favorite, gotta say. So. I've dug up some activity on this guy. He's definitely in your area. I got a couple camera hits as recently as Sunday. They're a match in facial recognition." She lists off a couple cross-street gas stations.

"Yeah. Damn close," Jody confirms.

"Thing is, his activity goes back every few days before that. I can follow him back to Utah and a little north. But he hasn't showed up in five days. When did the body drop?"

"Coroner says he still has to confirm but it looked like three, four days," Jody frowns.

"You are..." Charlie goes quiet for a second. "Jody, you're about to get a call about an abandoned truck. I can see the report being typed by dispatch. Thorne has one - or at least he did eight years ago - that matches the description."

"Where?" Sam asks.

"Mmm. North. Over the river and through the woods," she sing-songs. "I'm sending the coordinates to your phone. I'll call if I get any other hits."

Jodie's walkie crackles and someone calls her out. She turns away to take it.

"Thanks, Charlie," Sam says, thumbing at his phone now, waiting for the link to pop up.

"You guys cool?"

"Other than having very little to go on," he shrugs. That's bound to change, certainly if she's monitoring things, now.

"Call me if you want me to come up? I have an ID good enough to get me on a plane. They won't be stretched too thin if you need more hands."

"Thanks, boss," he grins. "I'll keep you updated. Everybody good down there?"

"Oh, you know... Josie ate something with strawberry flavoring and we had to epi-pen her. But Dean's gonna hang out until they release her from the ER. She'll be fine."

"Wha- holy crap." He had no idea.

"She's a trooper, she's okay. She said it was worth it because the pie was delicious so... that's all on Dean, quite frankly. I did _not_ drop that particular authority-figure ball."

Alex rolls her eyes and pushes off from the hood of the car. "You guys are amazing."

«»

Jody brought a tent. They set it up but both she and Chuck stare at it warily. They'll probably come back to find Chuck with his pillows in the passenger seat and her in the back, in Jody's old sleeping bag.

It's less traceable than a motel and there really are a great deal of sharp objects around. Sam feels almost okay leaving them there.

(You know. Except for that whole thing he's trying not to think about where he hasn't had Chuck out of his sight since he made his own proposal. But it's okay. It's okay. It's full-circle, after all. They were here, then, and this property is gonna protect his family. So it's okay. Totally okay. Right.)

It's a long drive and they've got limited facts. Jody talks about how Alex is hanging out with the jocks this week at school. Sam tells her about how amazing Charlie's been at keeping them all in line and on task, lately.

Jody drums on her steering wheel a moment before she asks, "So you two eloped already?"

She noticed Chuck's ring. "No. I. We're um. There's gonna be a ceremony. Hunting-kinda-witchcraft-kinda thing. He um. I wanted to propose back to him."

"Lookit you," she grins and taps at his knee. "I had no idea you were such a romantic."

"Well. I don't get to practice it a lot," he still can't stop smiling.

She nods after a while. "I'm happy you're so happy, Sam. It's nice to see. You better. You better grab on with both hands." She stops herself. "I mean. I know how careful you are. Build that house, okay? I don't wanna see that lot vacant for much longer. I'm sick of it," she turns a quick smile on him, trying not to bring the mood down.

"We'll practically be neighbors soon, I promise you'll get sick of us, instead."

"Be nice to have somebody nearby again," she shrugs. "And I barely know Chuck; I ought to get to know him better. Think I scared him when we first showed up."

"Oh. No. He's generally pretty quiet. He gets nervous about the authority figure thing because of what we do."

"So I'm still the cops for now," she nods. "I know he wrote those books. Did you meet him on the job, or?"

"Uh. Yeah. Kinda. Long time ago, actually. Then I just. I was hunting some demons and I came across him again and kinda."

"You didn't! Please tell me you rescued him?! That is-- Sam. Sam, that's storybook romantic," she laughs.

He grins. Yeah. It is pretty romantic. It wasn't, at the time, but. After a few retellings between them it certainly feels that way.

They get to the truck and dig through it before it's hauled up and towed away. It's on a dirt road, pointed towards nowhere.

"There's some property a couple miles up but the family's small, private. Always keeps the fence locked," Jody shrugs.

They find all of somebody's belongings. No ID among any of it. Whoever it was is traveling and only has his wallet on him.

Sam finds a zipper on the back of the passenger seat. He climbs in and makes sure the deputy isn't looking when he yanks it.

Blades and hunting gear hidden inside. A messy pouch of miscellaneous ammo.

Jody comes around the side.

He points to what he found.

She cringes.

Jody found a tablet computer among the contents of the truck. Sam calls Charlie back. He reads a serial number off the insides and she's cracked it in no time.

"That's our guy." Larry Thorne's email accounts are all over it.

"And the man, himself, still yet to be found," Jody frowns. "I gotta send this truck to the impound lot. Or evidence. Um. Should I keep Deputy Fenn? I wanna head up the road and check on this family."

Sam doesn't like working with other cops so, "That's your call."

He gets out of the vehicle so they can send it off.

"Fenn. Roll up, check the gate," she orders. "Radio back what you find. Don't go in alone."

He nods, gets in his car, and Jody speaks to the tow truck driver, watches while he hauls the pick-up up and readies it to drive away.

She steps back from the noise when she's hailed on the walkie.

"Gate's open, Sheriff. No signs of distress. Can't hear anything. Can't see the front door from here. Standing by. Copy?"

She points to get Sam back in the car. "Stay standing by, I'm 10-51. Copy?"

Jody has to make the call at the gate. It's wide open. This is an issue of private property, though.

She tells Fenn to get back in his car and wait.

She and Sam sweep in on foot.

The yard is wide, the house far. The flashlight wouldn't have reached the front door.

Which is also open when they get there.

They get their flashlights in front of their guns and Sam hands over one of the machetes he brought.

It's a little unwieldy holding all this but they do their best. Sam slips in, first. He moves left through the house so Jody goes right.

It's cluttered. Lived-in.

Except for the fact that no one's in it. They meet at the entrance to the basement.

Nod at each other. Clear.

Alright.

Handle to the basement door is locked.

He puts a hand to it. Sturdy but not a great piece of equipment on the lock. He has picks but it's dark and seriously quiet in here.

He decides on one swift movement. He gets some room, motions Jody back.

Kicks the door in.

They sweep down the stairs fast.

So fast Jody almost slips on the streak of blood on the bottom step.

Sam sweeps his light around the room.

Two bodies. One in one corner, one in the other. Sam heads to the man, Jody the woman.

They carefully step forward to check.

Sam's has no pulse. He's dead cold and obviously bled dry.

Jody gasps. Turns wide eyes on Sam.

He comes forward and they carefully check her teeth. No extra set and she moans. Tries to move.

"You're okay, we got ya," Jody says. Pulls at her radio. "Fenn. EMT. Call it out."

They hear him call for dispatch while they get the woman turned to her back and checked over. Her arm is ravaged with bites. She's almost tapped out.

"Fenn, you've got training. In here. Basement. Pull up, headlights on the house," Jody says into her walkie.

Jody goes up to meet him and Sam checks the bites. Pretty standard.

She blinks.

"Who was it?" Sam asks.

She rasps something he can't hear.

"Woman?" Sam asks.

She shakes her head a little.

"Okay, a man. Huge?"

She winces, shaking her head.

Fenn's down, finally, and Sam gives up her hand so he can start assessing her.

He doesn't know what the sniper looks like.

"Jody - can you pull up a picture of Thorne?"

She pulls out her phone to start scrolling. "What was his height, you remember?"

"Average, he wasn't a big guy. Here," she hands over her phone. Sam takes it to enlarge the picture and turn to the witness, but-

"She's passed out," Fenn says, then speaks into his walkie asking for the ETA of the medics.

And she doesn't wake up again before they take her away. Still flying blind.

"You said the family was small," he turns to Jody. The power's completely cut so they're shuffling through the house looking for evidence. "Was it just the two of them?"

"No. There was a daughter. She teaches at Alex's school, actually."

"Alright. How do we find out if she's showed up to work?"

"At this hour?" she scoffs. "Nobody's about to answer a phone."

She has to turn away to answer a call for the bus that's gonna pick up the second body.

Sam gets a call on his cell.  
Chuck.

"Hey, you okay?"

"Definitely not," he says in a terribly calm voice.

"Get in the car and stay there. Lock the doors."

"We are."

Sam's already booking it out the front door, practically dragging Jody to the car. "How many?" he demands.

"Don't know. It was a phone call. One of her teachers called and demanded to know where she is. We didn't tell her but. We're um."

Freaked out.

"We are on our way back to you. Don't move unless it's to drive away," Sam orders. Not that they could get far, unless they rammed through the gate.

Chuck takes a deep breath. "We're fine. Her teacher definitely wasn't. You need to find out how to get her back, first. It sounded like there was a guy in the background telling her what to say."

It doesn't matter. He's going back, anyway. "We'll work it out with both of you in the car. I don't think we can split up for this." Sam's too far from him and this has just opened up a pit in his stomach. His heart is fucking flying.

Jody starts the car and blazes off. Sam talks away from the phone, telling her what happened. He can't hang up. He needs to hear Chuck on the other end.

"Talk to me," he says back into the phone. But Chuck's turned away, speaking to Alex.

Sam listens for every word until they're silent.

"Chuck. Hey!"

"Hi. There are headlights outside the front gate," Chuck says, eerie calm and completely disconnecting. Unhooking himself from the fear so he can concentrate like Dean does sometimes. "I need to not talk because they can hear really well," he says super low. "Come quick."

He hangs up and it's like the first time since the goddamn _Supernatural_ convention that he could seriously just grab him and fucking shake him.

He locked them in the gates. The new fence is tall. Nobody could really get in. But he needs a play-by-play. He needs to be on the spot, know what's going down.

He calls and calls and Chuck doesn't answer.

He fucking calls Alex.

She hangs up once and then she doesn't answer, either.

"I'm driving as fast as I can," Jody says before he can even turn to her. They get back towards the populated area and she throws her lights and sirens on.

He feels like his fucking _rage_ could super-fuel the damn car.

«»

It doesn't matter that he locked the gate. It only fucking trapped them inside the lot.

There are trees close enough to the fence. Shadows of big bodies climbing and grabbing for the top.

There are only two on the ground when they pull up. Two women shackled to the back door of a car, left running, lights on the gate.

They screech and protest and snarl at them, blood-encrusted mouths -- already turned. Around the side, Jody goes after the two of them waiting to climb the tree, she pulls her gun up and goes to blast their knees out. Sam passes the other car, runs to unlock the fence.

By the time his frantic hands get him inside, Chuck's pinned under a vamp snarling for his neck. One body unmoving on the ground, and Chuck's reaching for his blade, stuck in it. Alex is kicking the same vamp. She comes up with a machete first and gets a knee up on its back. She falls when the body collapses on top of Chuck, headless.

A man barrels after her and Sam pulls his gun, fires two shots at it, shoulder hit, then the head. But headshots only stagger vamps. He runs after it and pulls his blade, sweeps its head off.

Another falls out of the tree, howling, wounded, Sam straightens and walks over, kicks it in the head so it sits up straight; takes its head right after.

" _Alex!!_ " they hear Jody from the other side before she books it back around and into the lot.

Alex helps Chuck roll the body off then turns to get to Jody.

They almost collide at the gate. Stop for breath and grab for each other’s arms.

Sam holsters everything and circles the car to pick Chuck up out of a pile of window glass.

"Now fucking talk to me," he demands. Uses his jacket sleeve to get the blood that fell on Chuck's face. "Did any get in your mouth?"

"No." But he leans to the side and spits, to see, and it doesn't look like there's any by the moonlight, at least. "I had to hang up."

"You could have set the phone down."

"You would have yelled into it," he hisses when Sam pulls him to stand straight. "Oh, fuck you that fucking hurts," his breath staggers.

Sam tries to hold him up a different way and it doesn't seem to help much.

"Sam," Jody calls. She nods over to the other car, still running.

"Find out if they've fed yet." He has to turn and sit Chuck in the open passenger seat. He has to check him over and inspect his hands and look at the bloody nip of three fangs at his throat. He has to grab Chuck's jaw. "You're in so much fucking trouble."

"Yeah. I know."

"Sit right here and do not fucking move."

"Don't know if I even could," he grabs his knee to start flexing his leg.

Sam tells himself he cannot cannot cannot make out with him until after he's lectured him.

The two vamp women are reaching for Jody and Alex with their jaws. They don't wanna answer questions, they just wanna be fed.

"Jody," Sam says. He pushes them back a little. Goes to get the dead-man's-blood vials. Shoots each of them up with a quarter shot.

Jody helps them sit when they slide down, still cuffed to the car. Alex pulls the keys from the ignition, quieting the vehicle.

"Alright." Sam shakes his hair out of his face. "Now. Either of you fed yet?"

Even this weak, they still strain against their cuffs and their eyes roll to each other.

"Let me introduce you to your options," Sam crouches beside them and pulls his machete. "If you've fed?" He holds up the knife. "But if you haven't? There's a cure. You can go back to being completely human."

"Haven't. I haven't fed," one chokes out.

The other only tries to claw away as feeling comes back into her fingers.

He sees Alex walk off into the dark.  
He sees Jody load the other up with another quarter shot.

He takes the rest of the vial for the woman trying to crawl away. Chops the chain to her cuffs and drags her into the dark, far from where Alex will hear.

«»

They find out what happens when a vamp has already fed and still tries the cure.

She basically tosses all her insides, outside.

She really had them convinced.

There was the whole scared and innocent routine and the story she told them in explanation. That Thorne had stumbled upon the nest and been turned. That the nest had been built by a man who had fed off of Alex before and knew her scent. That Thorne turned the teacher and then traced the call she made to Alex.

But either she lied about who created her or she lied about feeding. Because.

Like. Wow.

Chuck described it as "what happened to Senator Kelly in the _X-Men_ movie, but red." Almost like she melted into a puddle of gore.

So it's possible she lied about all of it. They may never know what led to the attack. The only thing Jody could confirm was the school break-in. Some records were accessed on the administration terminal under the teacher's employee code. Nothing was missing except the window they came in.

What Sam does know, for sure, is that losing Chuck's voice like that was fucking intolerable. Listening to him close himself off and go cold and be the hero because he was forced into it-

Him and Alex saved each other. The vamp crept up and pulled her through the car window. Chuck got out and fought him.

Alex took the head off the other that came after Chuck. But not before he was tackled, fucking up his ankle, bruising and scratching him all over. The limp is pretty pronounced. He thought it was his knee at first but that's just because the pain radiated so bad and he always assumes it's his knee. His ribs must have gotten fucked up when Alex dropped the vamp on top of him. He doesn't wheeze but it's hard for him to even so much as sigh.

This is why Chuck stays behind. Can he fight? Yes. Does he fight well? Yes. He just wasn't built to take on the same injuries in the line of duty. It was probably Dean's body that he fought through, using his mass and his skill and possibly his anger - and it's his own that takes the beating.

Jody has to call in a team to creep across their property and clean up the bodies.

Sam's gonna sage it again. Toss the bloodstained dirt out into the road.

He's gonna cut back the trees, too.

They stumble into Jody's house to sleep by the time the sun is rising. Alex is okay. She gets the next day off school. And Jody will rise again for another day of crimefighting, satisfied that there aren't any more vamps lurking in her town.

Him and Chuck take Claire's old room and the tiny bed.

"Gonna lecture you when we wake up," Sam says.

"Nah. You're gonna get in the car with me and give me the silent treatment all the way home. I'm gonna sleep on top of you," he announces, climbing in and falling all over Sam.

He carefully helps pull Chuck up. Grabs his thigh to get him closer and put his hand over Chuck's knee. He drops off right away.

And Sam doesn't manage the silent treatment in the car. He makes Chuck read article after article to him while he drives. Never lets him shut up.

«»

 **Home** , Dean texts him his status out of nowhere.

Sam has been waiting for this message. He's been counting the hours until Dean got him and Cas back to the bunker.

Chuck is busy reading so Sam slips off to pack some bags.

Chuck didn't want to go track the others down just to get healed up. He's been limping around and breathing unsteady because of the pain and Sam was finally ordered to stop asking about it.

Chuck refused to make the trip just for Cas to zap him. He's hurting and trying to power through it just so they can stay at home. Just so he doesn't bother anybody. It's gnawing at Sam.

A plan comes to mind.

Since the car window got knocked out, they're not just going down to the bunker for Chuck. They're going to get Dean to fix the car and to travel back up with both Dean and Cas to work on the property.

So they're going for several things, not just the one. Chuck can't object.

Sam quietly zippers everything up and comes back out to the couch to crouch in front of him and touch his poor ankle.

Chuck looks up and deflates. "Please stop with the puppy eyes. I swear I'm good, Sammy. I promise," he whispers, setting his comic aside.

"We can have Cas, now that they're back. We can go down and make Dean make dinner for us and bring them both up to work on the panic room and I need the window fi-"

Chuck sighs and puts his palm to Sam's mouth.

Sam grabs his hand. Kisses it.

If he has to watch Chuck limp around much longer, Sam's going to start convincing himself that he can survive out on the road without him. He's going to make dumb decisions that hurt them both.

"Please don't say no. Please let me get you fixed up. I'm supposed to-"

"You do, Sam. You do take care of me."

He just sits there. He just silently _pleads_.

Chuck reaches to hold his head in both hands. "I just don't wanna have to go running back every time I bump my head."

"This isn't a head bump."

"We love our windows."

"One night. Just one fucking night. Then we bring them both up to the property. It'll be a motel for a few days. We'll work on our _home_. We need to clean the vamp blood out. We need to-"

"Okay," he drops his feet off the couch to slide forward. "Okay. As long as you feel better."

Chuck feeling better is a lot more central to the issue. But he admits, it really has been making him mope. He's been worried about pressing him down too hard in bed and hugging him too tight. Wanting to lift him to keep him off his sprained ankle but afraid of squeezing his ribs in the process.

He kisses Chuck's knee. "Thank you."

"I could just get better, Sam. It'll just take a few weeks to heal. Like normal humans do."

"A few weeks of not being able to touch you right," he insists.

"Okay. Alright." Chuck clunks his head against him. "I didn't mean to make it harder to do your job. And I'm sorry I hung up on you. I promise I am."

"Okay. You're gonna have to keep talking to me. You're still making it up to me."

"I'm still getting used to my voice mattering. So remind me again, huh? Tomorrow and the next day."

"Okay." And the next and the next. All the agains he can handle.

Chuck lets himself be carried the wrong way, draped in Sam's arms, so it doesn't hurt when Sam brings him down to the car.

«»

The property looks trampled in the daylight. Crime scene tape still fluttering at the tied, broken ends.

Cas has only seen pictures of the empty lot so far. He squints around. "I didn't expect it to be so barren for some reason," he says, sounding a little confused. "I must admit: I miss it as it was."

They all kinda do.

Even if the feeling is fading.

Dean goes forward to kick at the blood-soiled ground. Cas follows. Keeps blinking, distracted, toward the east.

"There was a tree with sigils in it," Chuck nods in the same direction. "We took care of it, though. We kinda needed your help," he smirks.

Cas smiles back. "Then we should work."

They stand at the edge of the foundation. Cas just hops down while Sam has to get the ladder for the humans.

Cas feels at the walls for a while.

"Tell us what to do," Dean requests of him.

Castiel nods. "Sam, go back up and stand at the top. Dean, bring the ladder over. Chuck, with me?"

Sam directs him from above until the wall has been propped back into its right place. Chuck stands by with tools and a crowbar for some of the bolts that are rusted and need to be rattled out. Dean gets on the ladder and lines up any of the loose cinderblocks behind the iron. There are only a couple that fell out of line that they can keep. Two others buckled and will need to be replaced. "And we gotta cement it all back in," Dean adds, tossing the broken stones. But Cas gets it roughly back in place.

Cas is able to lift the broken locker block out with no problem, Dean grinning behind him as he works.

Sam helps Chuck climb out of the hole. "I wanna get the vamp blood out of here," he brushes the rust from his hands. "The wind comes up and I can smell this rot. It's grossing me out."

"How did they get in if the gate was locked?" Dean asks.

Sam points to the trees and how one of them is clearly hanging over the side of the fence by a good three feet.

Dean scowls. "Alright. I'm gonna call Jody's guy and set up an appointment for the concrete pour. The whole foundation and the panic room. Cas, can you work on pulling the rest of the metal out of the basement? Chuck, we'll get you a shovel for the blood. Me and Sam are on landscaping duty."

It's good they stay mostly out of visual range. Neither Cas nor Chuck would approve of them climbing trees like 10-year-olds whilst holding axes and saws.

While they work, he tells Dean the details of the attack and Dean tells him all about the hunt that crossed the Carolinas. Josie's gang got to learn a lot about ghouls.

But it's not until they're settling down at the steakhouse for dinner that Dean leans over on the table and spills what's clearly been worrying him.

"So, how did Alex-- was she okay?" He directs his question at Chuck. Sam already told him all he could. But he forgot to ask, in the wake of all his worry, if Chuck was able to speak with her.

Chuck frowns and switches his iced tea out with Sam's because the lemon fell into his. "Alex was amazing. And she hated every minute of it."

Dean tries not to look crushed.

"Listen," he plunks both lemons onto Sam's napkin and tries to fish a seed out from between the ice cubes. "Vampire hunting is a standard five percent of The Job, even if you don't hunt them exclusively. Just the bad taste of it ruins the whole institution for her." He sighs and focuses on Dean. "It's not like it would be with Cas," he motions across the table. "I mean. At least it's not like she thinks of them as family or anything. She knows they're gross. She knows why. She just. Alex just wants to forget. It's not a." He hesitates. "It's not a Stanford situation."

Cas is the only one at the table who's not practiced enough not to shift uncomfortably at the mention of it.

"She doesn't want to know or remember at all," Chuck continues. "She was pissed at me, by the way," he glances up at Sam. "She doesn't want to know. She wants to pretend she doesn't, in fact. And I know Dean finds that dangerous. Any of us who have seen too much know that, really. But we have the experience to know that it will come find you anywhere, no matter what you want. There's no hiding. She's gonna-- it may take a few slip-ups for her to figure that out. She wants to go to college and omit her past. Start over."

The three of them watch Dean carefully. But Chuck has to get through this. Has to let him know.

"It's important to her that she still keeps Claire as a friend. And she texts Josie all the time. Those relationships, even her time with Jody and Charlie and Cas. That's important to her. But. She doesn't feel like she can do what they do."

"She told you all this?" Dean boggles.

Chuck shrugs and sits back. "I don't need to be told everything. I just have to watch. Hear. See how she behaves and reacts."

"She could barely stand there to see those two vamp women," Sam adds. "When the second one was taking the potion for the cure, she helped her. Told her to keep it down. Told her what it would be like. But as soon as it started going south?" Sam shakes his head. "Sooner. I think she knew before we did. She's picked up a lot by sharing oxygen with them, day in, day out. And I think now it just. Just disgusts her. Disappoints her."

"It's painful," Chuck agrees. "She'll be helpful to a point. And I think she'll take instruction from Jody and Charlie on how to protect herself. But I don't think it will go beyond that. I think she's gonna come around a corner one day and smell something," Chuck stares far off. "See a flash of fangs. Her scars will tingle and she'll know. She'll run. Hide. I don't think it will be enough. This is the kinda lesson you end up learning," he cringes, "the hard way."

Sam watches his brother watching Chuck.

That's not what he wanted to hear. They can't protect her from this. And they can't push her too hard to protect herself.

On Dean it looks like rejection. And he pulls it on and wears it better than Dad did. "If Alex will listen to Claire and Charlie, we make sure they keep tabs on her. Visit her for lunch once a month when she goes off to college. Never sneak around. But always have our phones on."

Sam's so fucking proud of him.

«»

Dean decides that the maintenance bay should stay, for now, much as he wants to watch his angel yank it out of the ground.

Sam agrees. It's good cover. A shady place to work on things outside. And it could serve as backup parking for guests. The garage that will be attached to the house is enough to fulfill Chuck's request not to slog through the snow with groceries. And they have plenty of other land to work and build on.

Chuck stays at the motel while they help get the foundation poured and the base of the house stable.

Sam comes back just to clean up and change and grab him to meet up for dinner. But he ends up basically seducing him into the shower.

That's happening a lot more often, lately. Sam keeps letting his control drop around Chuck. He follows the faintest thread of want into full-blown, drugging desire. Can't give a shit how much time has passed. How much Dean's gonna know, from the look of them, that they showed up late because they were fucking around.

He works on their house and sometimes it hits him.

That, in some other far-away time, he'll be standing in that very spot watching over Chuck's shoulder as he crafts words. He'll be standing over here making dinner for his husband. He'll be one floor up, from this other spot, kissing him in the tub.

The earth here isn't scarred and charred anymore. They're going to make all kinds of love in this place. Chuck will hang on to his ears and stitch him back together and be warm in their bed.

They stay for almost a week, until Dean really wants to be back in his own home.

He told Dean to give Chuck a task so he didn't have so much on his plate. They talked about it while wandering to the creek and back. Chuck says he showed Dean the anti-angel tree and talked and Dean finally decided that Chuck will be in charge of the windows and the kitchen cabinets and the solar. He has time to research and work on these things - they're nowhere near ready to utilize them yet - and it gives him long-term projects that will move from hands-off to hands-on.

Sam's just glad Chuck is so thrilled with his pieces of the house. He's excited to get to the things Dean assigned him.

They have a hard time leaving the lot. "I want a better lock for the gate," Chuck decides, wandering the foundation.

"Okay," Sam agrees and grabs up his hand. Walks him from beside his perch on the edge toward the southeast corner. There will be a wall in this spot. But he wants Chuck to know this is here.

Sam was thinking about how they came to see this place the first time, and then Chuck proposed to him and he kept thinking those ugly words: _If it wasn't fucked up, you wouldn't know it was your life._

Those words have no place here. Not even on paper, rotting away.

Cas put his own words into the cement. Signs and wards and prayers and blessings. But in this corner there's only what Sam wrote.

**Chuck Winchester & Sam Winchester**

No dates. It didn't feel right. He can't yet tell which day in April will truly be the best for their wedding or he would have told Chuck that way. Sam would really have liked to give him that day to look forward to, to tell him and show him how it's already cemented in time.

But so much could happen between then and now. He's still unsure which day would be absolutely perfect. He hasn't finished the research. And, occasionally, time itself refuses to cooperate.

Who they are, though - that belongs here. He's ready for that to be permanent.

Chuck crouches to touch the impression of their names and Sam crouches with him so he doesn't have to let go.

"I want a better lock on the gate," Chuck repeats, sounding raw.

"Yeah. Me, too," Sam kisses him.

«»

Chuck is done rubbing his wrists and has moved on to thumbing at the sides of his head.

Sam got him food and caffeine and that's pretty much his limit of watching him suffer in silence. Time for pills.

He digs through all the bags he can find and the cabinets and the drawers and.

Yeah. Great.

He left most the medical supplies in the car-- the Impala. Like a couple weeks ago, the last time they were all together.

Shit.

He's got some nearly-empty bottles of standard headache meds.

He should have fucking figured this would happen. Especially without regular access to Cas.

Chuck still stays shut up entirely too much. Sam is seriously fucking trying to stop it from getting on his nerves. It's just another set of habits they have to work Chuck out of. He's clearly got a bit of an addictive personality.

The _quiet_ is going to have to get pushed aside so Sam can fucking hear him more often. Sometimes he thinks they made more progress, as a _couple_ in a _relationship_ when they were long-distance on the phone in Jersey and Virginia.

Of course, not even that went entirely well. Chuck started setting timers.

" _Sam_."

Did.  
Did he just?

Sam heads back out toward the main room and pokes his head around the doorway. "Did you just yell for me??"

Chuck lets go of the death-grip he has on his head to look up. "Yes. Fucking please."

Sam blinks but goes. "You've never once yelled for me before."

"Please tell me you have Advil or something."

He cringes. "I was just looking. I don't have much. I've got the off-brand naproxen, and-"

Chuck snatches the bottles out of his hands. Squints at the labels. Shakes two out of one bottle and two out of the other.

"You wanna fucking take it a little slower, maybe?"

"No. I'll be fine if I have these with more food. Are there pretzels?"

He tosses up his hands and heads to dig through the kitchen. "You didn't even tell me you had a headache, let alone that it was so bad."

"You figured it out," he gripes back.

"Well, could you," he shakes his hair back and pulls on the back of his own neck. "Could you consider fucking _telling me_ before it gets so bad? I don't have that much stuff here to treat you with. I forgot that Cas can't just zap your headaches away."

"He didn't help that much. Half the time he just told me to hydrate."

Sam looks back over the counter at him.

"Yes! I hydrated! Geeze!"

Sam gets the damn pretzels and the damn peanut butter.

Chuck disappears around 7:20, still thumbing at his head and when he doesn't come back out into the main room to watch his shows, Sam creeps in after him.

The blinds are all closed and the lights are all off and the other fan is on, so the temperature in the room is a lot cooler than usual.

He closes the door quietly behind himself.

"Please come here," Chuck wails in a really tiny voice.

"You sure? I might make the sheets warmer and-"

" _Please_ ," and he's not repeating himself. That's the _other_ 'please.'

Sam feels his way to the bed and shuffles the sheets back and pats until he gets side-side-elbow-shoulder and he can push forward to kiss him.

Chuck unfurls from where he's huddled to cling around Sam, instead, like he's both the squid and the crab today.

Sam rubs a hand down his back and raises the other to his forehead. No fever. He has to remember to keep checking.

"I was probably wrong to give you those pills. I probably should have run out and grabbed sinus meds. It's probably your sinuses. You want me to rub your head?"

"I've been doing that, it just _hurts_ more," he sounds so sad. Sam draws his head down close to himself and kisses everywhere as he settles Chuck in around him. "I can't sleep. It's not working. I'm missing my shows."

"We can download them."

"But I might as well be watching them if I'm gonna be stuck awake, anyway!"

Sam takes a breath. "Could you please stop getting angry at yourself for having a headache? I'm really fucking not cool with the way you beat yourself up when you're already in pain. If anything it's my fault for not keeping more drugs here."

"Did you leave them behind so I wouldn't sneak them?"

"Hey. No," he says quite simply and holds Chuck tight and breathes with him.

And after another couple minutes: "Oh my god. I'm so sorry."

"Don't apologize for having a headache, either. That's the same bullshit."

"No, I'm sorry I just accused-"

"Stop," he breathes into Chuck's hair.

He stays tense and awake and just... fucking remains that way. For like an hour. He moans and shifts and pulls away to get cool and comes back because he wants to be held and nothing helps.

Sam can't fucking _help_ him.

"We can have sex," he finally says. "Maybe if you're exhausted-"

"If we have sex and I'm in too much pain to enjoy myself, you're going to beat yourself up for approximately eight years. That's just how you work."

Sam sighs. "Okay. This is weird, but: maybe if you cry? I know it's exhausting to you sometimes."

Chuck tosses himself back again with a ragged breath. "I just wanna sleep," he flat-out _laments_. It's one of the saddest things Sam has seen happen to him, yet.

"I don't know how to help you," he finally says, and it comes out sounding just as sad. "Do you want me to run out and get something? I'll fucking knock over a pharmacy. It might take a while. I'll have to go a couple towns over-"

Chuck's hand finds his in the dark and he pulls it over onto his chest and grips it tight. He knows he's too hot to scoot closer right now, that Chuck needs to be cool, have some air circulating. But he wants to hold him so bad. Wants to take this away and fix everything so bad. It started out as a headache and is ending up fucking agony for the both of them. This is such _shit_.

Chuck takes a deep breath and tangles his hands with the one he claimed from Sam. "I can't. I can't do real pain pills. I can't even do NyQuil. I can't." He seems to convince himself. "I won't," repeats, "I _won't_. I'll fall asleep and I'll be fine."

He sounds so fucking worn down and so exhausted and this isn't the time to be a fucking grin-and-bear-it-Winchester. He needs sleep. He needs to be fixed. Sam has to fix him. Has to _do_ something.

Chuck snores.

Sam is.  
Well.  
Startled is a weird way to put it.  
But it takes an actual dose of hunter's calm to keep from shocking his hand away at the noise.

Holy shit.

Chuck snores again.

He's asleep.

All he needed was Sam's hand. That's all he needed?  
Was to hold hands?

Oh god, Sam just fucking marvels. He scoots closer and shares his pillow with him and breathes him in and is in fucking _awe_.

Oh god. This tiny, frantic, stressed-out, smart, hilarious, tortured, perfect little man just wants to hold his hand sometimes and it blows him the fuck away.

He would have gone out and bought more meds for him. And maybe he should sneak out of the bed and go do that, now. But what if moving his hand wakes him up? Better to have to bundle him into the car in the morning and take him with than risk that he'll wake up without a hand to hold.

He kind of never wants to do that again.

Like, there will certainly be times, in the future, that keep him out of Chuck's bed for the night.

But, god. He doesn't want that to be okay.

Oh, god.

He's so proud of him. He would have robbed a pharmacy, no fucking joke. And with the devotion rising in him now?

Some sucker at a CVS is one lucky bastard right now just because Chuck actually chanced to fall asleep. Sam would have fucking done it. In a heartbeat.

And he's so fucking proud for Chuck not wanting to take heavy-duty pills. So fucking proud of him for rejecting even the notion of relying on alcohol-based cough syrup. So thrilled to see him looking out for himself and staying clean for the both of them.

Sam's convinced he doesn't need to be that entirely careful with himself, but the fact that he's thinking this way, keeping himself sober, even when he's in pain?

Maybe this headache brought back shades of his old self. His lonely self, in his apartment and drinking his days away to blur out the pain. Maybe that's why he didn't want his ankle fixed. Because he's trying to make himself live through the rough stuff instead of--

Oh, fuck. He wants to touch him so bad. He doesn't want Chuck to feel _alone_. That's the one thing neither of them are supposed to have to live with anymore. He's never gonna be alone again and he doesn't have to tough through his pain for Sam.

Chuck _changed_ for him. He _changed his very self_. And he sticks around. And they do this _together_ thing like they're both _good_ at it.

He tries, very carefully, not to squeeze the hand he's holding. He settles slightly closer. Deep breaths and Chuck on every one of them. His shampoo. His hazelnut coffee. Oh god.

His little hands tight around Sam's one big paw.

He wants to build a world around him. Fuck this house business, where can he buy a stack of unused mountains? Some canyons? Some oceans?

Gonna keep bursting into new atmospheres with the way it rushes over him. Coming to love someone so fucking deeply.

 _They're holding hands_. Like, what, is he a fucking teenager? Losing his goddamn mind over his crush because he's holding his hand?

Oh holy fuck. He's still got a GIANT crush on Chuck.

He presses too close and noses into his hair and Chuck doesn't wake up. His snores get lighter, then heavier again. He'll wait a couple hours until he's definitely in REM sleep and pull him to his side so he can breathe easier.

Unless that jostles their hands.

Snores. He should have gone with sinus meds. Dammnit.

Suddenly he hopes like hell that the binding is like mind-reading. Or an inner connection, through-and-through. He hopes he can start figuring Chuck out from the inside. He's going to pay better attention. He almost wants to _pray_ he's getting so desperate for it. Like, _if you just let us see inside each other I swear I'll save a hundred more people before we retire_.

Fuck. Of all the fucking things in the world-- out of all the other people that there are for _other people_ , somebody actually chose him. Chuck has seriously chosen to stay with him, with his eyes open, knowing more than anybody the things that lurk inside of Sam.

And he chooses to give Sam his words and his presence and _stay with_. Come with in the car and be dragged off to bed and have Sam hover all around him too-close, too-hot, too-big, and too-angry and he _comes with anyway_.

Holy crap. He's probably going to mess this up.  
He wants it, anyway. He wants to try.

Yes. YES. He's gonna try harder.

He's going to touch Chuck in soft ways and make him tell more stories until he's accidentally just telling Sam all the stuff that's running through his head.

Fuck. He could start now. He could touch him and bring his sleep deeper and make him feel loved. Make him know he's loved, even in his sleep. But Chuck is holding his hand. He can't pet at his sides without moving a lot and risking jostling him around. And he's asleep! He can't even kiss him!

Well, Chuck gives him shoulder-kisses when he's asleep. He asked if that was okay. If that's okay for Sam, then is it okay for him? He's gonna do it. And he's not going to move up to his neck and his jaw. He's just gonna stay there and try to sleep with him. He has to be ready to wake up in the morning and head out to buy headache-stuff. He's gonna fucking fix this.

Chuck doesn't let go of his hand. When he sleeps, his fingers twitch like typing, sometimes. Or catch in Sam's shirt or the covers.

He might let go in the night.

Sam aligns them and leans on his other arm. Can barely see anything in this deep dark. Just one bar of light from under the door, the main room.

He tries to see Chuck's shape.

«»

"Sammy. Honey, your arm is gonna hurt," he hears whispered.

Sam blinks awake. "Said it again," he grumbles. Then hisses in pain moving his arm out from under his head. A flash of agonizing and then fuzz. Needles. Numbness.

"Oh, god, I'm sorry," Chuck cringes.

"I'm okay," Sam grits. "You just needed my hand. That's all it took to help you. I might have had a really extended, deep moment of longing watching that happen, by the way. Nothing creepy, I just can't wait to be married to you. I hope that's okay," he frowns and shakes his hand out.

"You hope that's okay?" Chuck lets go of his hand to turn and push him back, get hold of his arm and start kneading at it. "I can barely function around you anymore. I feel all good and shit and all I wanna do is marvel over you and make you happy and get you naked. This is not the desperate, bare-bones, begging-for-scraps existence I pictured for myself, Sam. How am I ever gonna make it as an alcoholic loser if a guy holds my hand so I can sleep?"

"You caught me. I'm just hanging out here to crush your dreams," he laughs and lays back and looks to the gray of the ceiling in the scant morning light leaking around the blinds. Happy as the numbness recedes and he can feel Chuck touching-touching-touching.

Chuck lets go and climbs to his other side and pulls Sam's pins-n-needles arm over himself to rub sensation back into it. Sam curls against his back.

"Call me that thing again," he says into Chuck's ear.

But Chuck likes to deny that word for some reason. "I don't know what you're talking about. I'm busy fixing your arm. My squid is broken."

"Is my crab still broken? How's your head?"

"God. So much fucking better, I can't even tell you. I'm thirsty, but my head-- it's like I didn't even have a headache. It's magic. Can you feel this yet?"

"It's fine. You don't have to keep going."

"You fixed my head. You got me to sleep. This is the least I should do."

"You could give me a handie, since mine's asleep," he jokes.

"You know, you didn't mean that, but guess what's happening next?"

"Too bad it's not my mouth that's asleep."

"... Would you be... blowing yourself in that scenario?"

Son of a bitch. Way to go. "... Good point. Didn't think that through."

Chuck lets go and turns in his arms. He wraps closer and can feel them both lazily half-hard against each other.

"Actually. Can I ask you if we can do that? For real?" Sam asks.

"The handie?"

"Anything. Anything where I can touch you. Maybe it will keep your headache from coming back. Brain chemicals," he shrugs. "Or something like that."

Chuck considers him. Shrugs. "Um. Meh."

"You haven't had coffee yet," Sam sighs and moves to start shifting them both up and out of bed.

"That doesn't mean I'm not gonna do it," Chuck settles where he is.

"It's fine. Let's wake up first. Make sure your headache doesn't come back by getting you food. And _hydrating_."

"Wait a minute. Are you _not_ thinking about my mouth on you? Is it that easy to turn you off? You think I need coffee more than I need you and just. Poof? No more sex?"

Sam rolls his eyes and presses him back, pins him to the bed. Gets on top of him.

Grrrrinds against him to prove that isn't true.

He blinks at Sam.

Sam kind of. Shrugs. Because _there it is_.

"Oh god that really makes me want you," Chuck gasps and yanks Sam down into a kiss until he gets so into it his hips move without any pattern, just trying to settle into the right place between Chuck's legs. He pulls back for air with his eyes closed.

"Okay," Chuck says, pushes Sam's chest until he lays back. "Your turn to talk. Pull it out and tell me you want me to suck you off." He climbs over Sam's legs, watches as he scrambles at the fly of his jeans.

"Fuck. Please put your mouth on me, Chuck. Chuck, please," he starts to babble.

Chuck stills the nervous movement of Sam's hands, pushes them out of the way. He takes a page from Sam's book and pushes his shirt up to kiss at his stomach. Sam likes bites, he doesn't want to have to give permission. So Chuck knows he can bite across his skin, teeth into muscle and tonguing in the dips. Following the curve of his hip to his groin and getting his clothes out of the way himself. Sam's hands fly to the mess of sheets, already choking back a sob in his throat, an aborted thrust of hips jolting Chuck only slightly.

Chuck presses his mouth to Sam's thigh just as he's looking down and sees his cock straining right above. Chuck speaks into his skin. "You want my mouth on you where?"

"Everywhere," he shudders. "Fucking anywhere. On my cock and. Anywhere, please. Fuck." Yes. _Yes_.

Chuck keeps talking into his skin for a while. Kissing and skimming his lips and teeth as he does. Keeping a grip on Sam's pants, still tangled around his legs, to restrain him. "I want my mouth on you, too. How fucking long do you think I'd thought about the taste of you? I never had that. I could always look but never touch, Sam. Always needed to be closer to you, get wrapped up in you."

He stops his hand from flashing down to grab Chuck's head by clutching back into the sheets.

"No. You can," he allows, and takes Sam's hand up, himself, draws it to the back of his own neck.

"Oh god. Oh my god," Sam stares down at him, wide-eyed and trying to keep a grip on his control.

"Gimme your other hand," Chuck requests.

Sam pries it up, stiff from gripping the sheets.

So Chuck goes down on two of his fingers for a while, until Sam is dragging them down his tongue and out of his mouth on each suck. "Please?" He pants after a while. "Please?"

Chuck lets his hand go to curve over him again. To speak into the skin of his stomach. But he doesn't do it aloud this time. His lips and tongue say things and it takes Sam a maddening time to figure it out. He recognizes his name and _So gorgeous_ and what he thinks is _Want you want you want your cock so bad-_

Sam jolts a little. Can't hold his own hips down. Chuck pushes down, like a reminder. Hard and promising. Then goes on.

Sam feels _I love you_ and _Fuck me_ and _Tell me you want me, tell me you fucking love me, tell me you're keeping me_.

"I fucking love you," Sam gulps for air, Chuck backs up to breathe across him. "Want you. Want you. Fucking keeping your mouth on me. Fucking keeping you forever, goddamnit."

"Good," Chuck says. "Got the message." And his eyes are fucking hazed out as he drops his mouth down and takes Sam in until he can't go further. Then just stays, breathing, moaning, trusting Sam's hands on his neck in a way that makes him curl up a little from the strain of not thrusting _up_.

After a moment of adjustment, Chuck licks and laves his way back up and goes down by degrees again before coming back up, wrapping his hands around as much as he can and pausing to meet Sam's stare. Licks the tip and kisses it.

"Chuck! Please!" he cries, fucking _desperate_.

"You haven't been talking enough for me."

"Pleasepleasepleasepleasepleasepleaseohgodplease-"

"Do you wanna come in my mouth or do you wanna fuck me?"

Oh holy fuck. Big decisions. "Oh. God. Oh god. Fuck. Please let me. Please let me come. Please. Your mouth? Please?? Oh god I wanna fuck you. Oh god your mouth," he stutters, not making sense.

"Am I gonna have to choose for you?"

Fuck it. "Yes???"

Even after a few more times doing it, he still hesitates like he doesn't understand that the mere _thought_ of his mouth anywhere in the vicinity of Sam's cock makes him go wild inside. He sucks him down, not far, but up and down as much as he's able, using his hands on the rest of Sam's length until he's wordless and coming and then falling to pieces, thoughtlessly praising and pulling Chuck up, desperate to hear him speak. He swipes a hand over Chuck's beard to clear his face off, then kisses into his mouth, holding him up by the shirt like he might try to escape.

"Tell me what to do for you. Teach me how to fucking deserve you, sweetheart," he says, quiet, pleading.

"I think you know me better than I do sometimes. I think I should trust you to do whatever. I don't want you to ask this time. I want you to keep talking. I want you to tell me," he declares.

Sam shudders. "Are you sure?"

"You tell me," he holds Sam's head in his hands.

Sam takes one of his palms to kiss. Pulls up one of his fantasies - almost an abstract concept that he wants to make real. "I think." He hesitates. "I think you like my hands. I think I'm just gonna make you come with my hands. You're always begging for them to be on you."

"Yes," he sighs, like the very thought makes him absolutely content.

"So, okay," Sam says, and kisses him while he gets busy taking Chuck's clothes off. Then he stretches his hands out wide and sweeps them all down Chuck's body. Curving around his arms and up and down his sides and across his chest and spanning his thighs, down to the backs if his legs and up again.

"Can I talk some seriously caveman shit?" his fucking voice shakes.

"Don't ask me for it if you know I want it," Chuck answers without answering.

"Okay." He takes a deep breath. "So I'm like fully in charge of you right now. That's good. It plays into this fantasy I have where everybody knows not to touch you, not just because you don't want it, but also because they know -- all of them, they ALL know -- that I'm the only one allowed. They all know because we have our bruises on each other from our mouths and sometimes I have to carry you around because I made your legs too weak. I just bring you everywhere with me and when you need to stop and take a nap you don't have to disappear, I just hold you and you sleep in my arms wherever I am, just sitting doing research or having a conversation or I have to let somebody else drive because I'm your bed and your sheets and your pillow."

He moves his hands all across Chuck's skin, soft and sure and watching him sink into the words, overblown possessiveness and Chuck doesn't object. His eyelids flutter and his hands come to twist over Sam's forearms.

Sam keeps his touch soft parting Chuck's ass. Warm and slow and easy thumbing and circling there until Chuck is pushing down on his fingers just a little. Sam moves to find lube and Chuck doesn't seem to like how that doesn't match with the tale he's spinning. He whines when Sam moves away from him.

Sam comes back, his hands caressing and apologetic. "Sorry. Not gonna go far. It's my job not to leave you until you come and you can fall back to sleep again."

Chuck closes his eyes, absolutely any tension left from last night melting. Sam pulls a shade to let the sunshine in, to warm him down to his bones and let him settle further. He drags the side drawer open to grab lube, keeping Chuck pressed to himself close.

He returns to work on Chuck's ass again. Keeps both their mouths occupied, kissing him until he's fucking Chuck with his fingers, building a rhythm.

"You need to put your arms around me and you need to spread out some more," Sam tells him, slows his hand to a light twisting until Chuck does, then ramps up speed again until he's gasping.

"I was gonna buy a plug for you," Sam says into his neck. "But I decided I wanted you to miss me when I'm not inside you. So you'll beg for my cock and let me stay as long as I need to."

Chuck starts shaking and his fingers dig in to Sam's shoulders. "God yes. Good. So good." It doesn't seem like his jaw is quite cooperating. He only opens for kisses, no real room for words right now. So Sam has to come up with more.

"Oh, Chuck," he presses his nose into Chuck's hair. "I love you. I love knowing I'm the only one touching you. I love that we're gonna get married and make that permanent. I swear I'm gonna learn you so fucking perfectly. I'm gonna find out how to make you come with a touch. I'm gonna find out how to unfold you for half a day and make you come once an hour."

"Yesssfuck-"

Sam settles Chuck back to scoot down and concentrate. To watch his own hand work, add another finger and crooks them just so that he lightly brushes at his prostate and it sparks curses and cries. Then he solidly fucks him with his hand again until Chuck's fingers are losing their grip on Sam's shoulders and he's just falling apart across the sheets.

Sam's other hand, pushing his thighs wide until now, moves to Chuck's cock and that's pretty much all she fuckin' wrote. It's a wrap. Chuck is hardly ever this loud. Calling out to Sam asking to be _owned_ like Sam said.

That's just.  
That's just so amazing.  
Sam is so done for.

Chuck tries to speak through his gasps, so Sam has to come back up and calm him down. Watching him lick Chuck's come from the side of his hand probably isn't really helping with that but oh well.

"Shh," Sam says and clunks their heads together as light as he can. "Give yourself a minute." He kisses Chuck's head, then decides, "Water. You need water. I'm coming right back. Close your eyes and I'll be right back. You won't even miss me."

Chuck just nods. He tucks him back into the sheets and Chuck simply does what he's told. Sam makes sure to turn on the coffeemaker for his sweetheart.

After Sam takes the glass back out of his hand, he can finally say, "Whatever loner Bukowski wannabe I was before, with that broke-down motorcycle and my shitty truck and my dusty house, my apartment-hopping and my slop-pile of booze and books? Fuck that guy," he decides aloud. Still needs to get his breath back a bit. "I'm gonna be your comfort. Your fantasy, too, apparently. I don't wanna be a writer when I grow up, anymore. I wanna be a _legend_. I wanna be the person who treasured Sam Winchester and allowed him to stay alive and lay the foundation for the Hunting Smart Method of Killing Other Stuff and Not Dying, Too (At Least Not Permanently). I'm gonna be your voice whenever you need it, your pen and paper and keyboard and vocal cords. And you'll just tower over the Men of Letters. Build something better. Then, in all the little places within each other we have our _residence_. And I get to _hold you_ and be your best friend. Fucking yeah. How awesome is that?"

Sam just shrugs. "Sounds good. I can work with that."

"Did you and Cas work out the math yet? Which day do I get to marry you?"

Sam can't help but smile extra soppy over him. "We're working on it, sweetheart. There are three or so that might work." He's narrowed it down. He really has. But he's gotta make sure. Make _perfectly_ sure.

"I can't believe I have to wait for a whole new year," he complains.

Sam presses his laughing smile against Chuck's arm. "I don't wanna wait, either. But I do wanna do it that way, with the binding spell. It'll be so good, Chuck. Maybe a little rough. But you'll be mine. It's gonna be amazing. I don't think I've thanked you for asking me, recently. _Thank you_. I love you."

"Thanks for saying yes. Thanks for the water. Thanks for the orgasms. Thanks for saving the world. Thanks for holding it down with that hairstyle. Thanks for texting. Thanks for being born. Thanks for maintaining those abs. Thanks for your hands. Thank you to future Sam for dicking me down for the millionth time."

"Millionth? Man. I got a hell of a quota to catch up to."

"You've got a while to work on it. I'm sloppy and I think you're right and my sinuses need clearing."

Sam nods. "Hot bath."

"You wanna try that again? With me?"

Fuck yes. He gets up to start the water. He's gonna get such a huge fucking bathtub for their house. It's going to look absurd.

When he finally crowds into the bathtub behind Chuck, he pulls a cup of coffee up from where he set it on the floor.

"I can't believe you found me," Chuck starts to marvel, holding his mug like it's precious. "I can't believe my best friend found me."

Sam wraps his arms around and kisses at his head. "I donno what to say to that, sometimes, Chuck. But I did. I found you. You're here. I found you."

He loosens his hand to bring it up to Chuck's coffee mug.  
Taps his ring against the ceramic. Smiles into his skin.


	4. at home with the ghosts

When Chuck was in the apartment in Colorado and Sam would come by, sometimes he'd bring little potted herbs. Those came to sit on Chuck's kitchen windowsill. He brought three and the plants traveled to Kansas City with Chuck when he moved. He barely noticed when the others showed up. Sam got him in the habit of filling the coffee carafe with water and hitting each of them before he filled it again to make the coffee.

He'd watch as Chuck walked into the kitchen blurry and pretty much half asleep and he'd just come across another pot, blink twice, and water it.

Sam would snip the herbs and hang them in the hall closet to dry. Then he'd come back in a couple weeks and take them down for spell bags and such.

Sam kept these things out of the way.

He kept all his stuff out of the way.

But the plants were kind of like a lame little gift. They weren't like when Sam left clothes behind. Stuff he didn't need to carry or just pieces between washing. He didn't just leave the plants behind. They were, apart from their functionality, intended to bring a little life and aroma and fresh air into Chuck's kitchen.

Sam passed books on to him. But that's how he said it: he was passing on books to Chuck. Or didn't have a place to hang on to them himself. That wasn't true, of course. At the time, there was plenty of space in the bunker. But he couldn't resist the temptation to leave words scattered around Chuck. Just leave them there for him. He kind of felt like that was where his favorite books belonged, anyhow; in Chuck's presence. He probably wanted Chuck to read them so they'd know each other better. But Chuck doesn't really read long books that aren't graphic novels and Chuck already knew him better than anybody.

Sam replaced Chuck's scarf after the vamp attack. Eventually.

The first present that he gave, specifically, as a present was a mug with a brown and gold tile pattern. Sam was in the suburbs outside Syracuse tracking down a witness and he passed a garage sale. The color of the mug instantly reminded him of Chuck. It doesn't match his eyes, it doesn't match anything he wears. But it looked like morning sunlight in his hair and for fifty goddamn cents he had to-- _had to_ see it in Chuck's hands the next time he went around.

Chuck loved it at first sight, which was a relief. Now, the mug makes him feel good. It's cracked, which Sam didn't notice at first, it was so thin and subtle. So Chuck's very careful about hand-washing it. He's worried that, if he jams it into the dishwasher, the crack will split the cup down the middle.

He was thumbing at the crack before he pushed the mug aside to turn and kiss Sam for the first time.

There are other presents. The coffeemaker. A few hoodies. Computer stuff. Sam doesn't always wrap things up. Mostly he just likes to bring Chuck to the store and get him new stuff. The mug might be the most important, though. He can tell. And he ought to remember that because the way he blows through fake cards, now, to lavish things upon Chuck, is kind of fucking reckless and if Dean knew how often he did it, he'd tell him so. There would be lectures and he'd probably get Charlie in on it.

He should really cool that down but it's kind of tough to make himself back off.

There's the rings. The one he already gave to Chuck and the one he'll give him when they're married. That might be the most _important_ gift he's given Chuck.

Sam got him a new pair of glasses. He-- he is, admittedly, a dork. He took Chuck out for a surprise and it turned out to be an eye exam and new glasses. Sam really loved that because they sat together like the other couples in the waiting room. They wandered a little trying different frames on his face. Then, when Chuck came back out, Sam stood up and the doctor shook his hand and shared what he found while Chuck tried to act like three points of change wasn't that bad.

And Sam just looked down and _adored him_. Because he was being treated like. Like he was just. You know. His family. And he had an open and unquestionable right to Chuck's fucking _medical history_. Seriously!

Chuck just thought Sam was a total fucking goofball but then the prescription came in. And now he can see eight hundred miles down the road. And Chuck thumbed at some of the more prominent marks on Sam's face and said, "You're a total meatball. I'm so in love with you," blinking in disbelief the whole time.

He gets reactions like that with a lot of presents. It's really fucking cool. So he keeps doing it. He's going to have to start hustling more pool for cash or something. Or ask Charlie to help him with another con so he's not bringing so much attention to their credit fraud.

It really is irresponsible. (It really is _hard to care_. Especially when Chuck turns and turns and turns his ring on his finger before turning adoring eyes up to him.)

Sometimes, living on the road can be a grind. Everything the same no matter how different the places are from one another. Sam's gone through phases when he took living on the road for granted. But Chuck isn't that way. He likes to be home. Likes to be safe and shut in and quiet. Likes to know what he's getting for fast food and enjoys the comfort of sameness. But he also finds it _interesting_ to travel. To hear how different voices complain about the same everyday problems in different accents and with different sets of slang and in reference to different landmarks and timelines. He's a writer, so of course he likes to people-watch and absorb new experiences.

You wouldn't think it of him, but he also likes to be surprised. It took Sam a while to realize that's because he lived, for a time, with the future pre-programmed into his head. Surprises mean that he can't predict stuff and that makes him happy. To feel like he's not continuously living things he knows is refreshing. Scary as they may be, it's still important to go looking for new things to flavor his life.

After knowing Sam for so long and then assuming he was dead-for-good, Sam qualifies as one of those surprises and sometimes just turning around and remembering that they're in the same apartment together flusters Chuck and makes him need to steady himself.

That's flattering and endearing and it makes Sam happy for him.

Though he insists that weird things always seem to happen to him in unfamiliar coffee shops, Chuck agrees to independent cafes at least once per trip. Sam will get him bags of different flavored or differently-roasted or differently-sourced beans to grind and try at home. Chuck gets a cup sleeve with a logo if they have one. He decided they're going to start a collection. Sam kind of likes that idea. He writes the date on the back and they keep them in a shoebox. They even have one from the Tim Horton's they went to in Canada.

Today is Chuck's birthday.

Sam forgot that Chuck wanted to try a french press until yesterday, so he had to sneak out with the car instead of going for his morning run.

They seem to only do two gifts at a time. Or if there's more than two, they're kind of grouped or something. So he sticks to the coffee press and saves the weird sugar sticks he bought for another occasion.

The other gift is a little more important.

It's a picture that Claire took on her phone of Sam and Chuck watching their Vine after announcing their engagement to the family. The only picture they have of them together like that, with a motion blur of Cas behind and Dean's and Charlie's elbows at the edge. Sam got it printed and framed.

When he wakes Chuck up, that's present number one, right after a lot of soft-slow kisses.

Chuck stares at it for a while. Holds the frame in both hands, frowning down.

"I was kinda hoping to happy-cry with you because, I have to admit, when Claire showed me, I got totally choked up," Sam says.

But Chuck shakes his head. "I'm. We look."

"Yeah."

"I mean." Chuck stares for a while longer.

They're in the kitchen and Chuck has the tablet in his hand and he's watching. Sam knows that Chuck's writing hand was clamped to his thigh at that moment. And while Chuck's watching the Vine loop over and over with a kind of pleased expression blooming on his face, Sam is staring at him.

Dopey and adoring. Just flat-out happy. It couldn't be plainer.

"This is what I look like?" Chuck asks.

"Yeah," Sam shrugs. "What's wrong with that?"

"Nothing. I just." He laughs. "I look. Healthier than I thought. I donno. Happier. And you look." He shakes his head. "So fucking sure."

"I am," Sam whispers and kisses it into his ear, rubs his back.

Chuck sets the picture down on his knee. "How am I doing, by the way? Am I good at this? Do I need improvement?"

Sam's confused. "You're perfect," he says and picks up his hand to kiss it.

"I wanna know for real, though," Chuck says. "I wanna know if there was something you thought that you were gonna get out of a relationship this serious that you haven't gotten. I kind of need to know before we start planning, um. The actual wedding."

"Oh," Sam says, like it's obvious. "Yeah, I mean. There's plenty we still have to do together to make this work. You could use some more practice."

Chuck _just manages_ not to wince. He licks his lips and nods, turns to sit facing Sam. "Okay. Lay it on me. I can do this."

Sam takes a deep breath. "First of all, nobody's perfect. You have to know that. So. I know there's stuff I'm doing wrong and I want you to tell me that, too."

Chuck has no clue. He's nodding like he's about to sit through a lecture. Sam is gonna give him all three presents. He'll combine the sugar sticks and the french press. He's probably going to give him three orgasms and go back out and buy more stuff and give him that, too.

"So I really thought you'd mellow out," Sam says with enough of an edge of seriousness. "You're so stressed. I thought that things would get less intense. Like you're still trying to make me love you and it's just like, when will it end? And then there's your height. I really didn't think I'd have to get used to you being so short all the damn time. Maybe you should consider growing up. Then there's the fighting. I'm missing out on having couple fights with you. Why are we never completely at odds yelling at each other? I really expected better of you."

By this point, Chuck has moved off the bed to go lie face-down on the floor and Sam is laughing his ass off.

"You're a fucking asshole," Chuck announces into the rug.

Sam climbs down and lays out next to him, legs crossed, at ease.

"Chuck, what I am gonna do is report you to INS. You're clearly an alien. Nobody's supposed to be this happy. I mean, clearly. There are hundreds of sitcoms out there telling us how secretly miserable we're supposed to be with each other."

"At least I'm marrying within my species this time, you damn weirdo."

"Do you know how hard it was finding a real proper freak who spoke my language? Do you know how many damn diners I sat in before I found you again? You're so damn rude. You made me wait forever."

"I'm rude! I'm the rude one!"

Sam strokes a hand up and down his back. "You wanna know what I really did expect?"

Chuck flops to his back. "I hope it wasn't mental stability."

"I expected it to mellow. I really did. I expected distance and getting too used to each other and a little bit of boredom and personality clashing and griping behind each other's backs and little tiffs and needing distance."

His hand comes up to spread across Chuck's center, below his chest. "I thought I'd have to choke down the complications and lop off the parts that didn't fit with you right. I thought this would be harder. It's hard sometimes but never in a way that doesn't end up feeling good."

Chuck nods.

"After the tattoo," Sam thinks aloud. "After that, we made rules about the bed and what parts you were in charge of. Then I'm in charge of other stuff. And it works well for us this way. So, it's like that: when things are hard? That's not a sign of the cracks forming. That's just a reason to stay together. We feel better, after."

"So much better. I wanted to ask you something."

"Shoot."

Chuck hesitates just a little. "If I need you to act like a caveman, can I do that? Can I ask for that? Or is that something you really don't like about yourself?"

Something inside him is all ready to get deeply, deeply fucking satisfied. It shudders in him and he tries not to get visibly excited. "Why?" he clears his throat. "Um. Do you like it?"

"Yes. And sometimes I need it. Like when I told you to decide what I needed for me. You did that. You were just perfect. But I don't know how much that makes you feel like... like a hunter instead of a Man of Letters." He rolls his head on the carpet to look at Sam. "I don't want you to feel that way."

"I'm a Person of Letters. So is my whole family. I'm a legacy and you're marrying in and everybody else is initiated because me n' Dean say so. None of us are just dumb brutes. And just because I feel caveman things doesn't mean I'm devolved or gross. It's just a part of me that works with the whole. Same as the vessel stuff, same as the demon blood," he tries to say it matter-of-fact but. It's still rough. Trying to believe what Chuck is repeating and repeating. He knows Chuck's asking this way right now so that Sam doesn't feel like he's made up of dumb parts that equal an unstable whole. But Chuck's taught him how to work on this-- taught him that they work on this together. And he doesn't need to deny that things are in him that he's not completely comfortable with. As long as he doesn't deny them, on the whole, he can surpass the reductive conclusions that have been tossed at him his whole life.

This is Chuck specifically asking for the part of him that's pushy and claiming. He's saying there's something about it that he likes. Sam has to remember that. Because when he decided to let Chuck come using just his fingers, it was fucking beautiful and passionate and hot and Chuck was lock-jawed and shaking until he let go, shouting, louder than ever. Chuck likes when Sam decides things for him sometimes. He knows what he's getting into. He knows Sam, through and through. _Loves_ him.

Chuck blinks over at him. "I can't even express how happy I am that you can be comfortable with yourself. That's what I want. And when you can't be, I want you to tell me so I can fix it."

"I know. It's a cool thing you do. I appreciate it," Sam props himself up on an elbow. "Now. I'm not gonna. You know. Do really _wild_ caveman stuff."

"I know. Nothing extreme. But if I need you to be uncharacteristically, uh, protective or d-dominant or-" his voice is thin and he stutters to a halt.

Sam smiles slow. "Just say so. Tell me what you need. I won't think any different of you. You won't think any different of me."

"So. If I wanna have a day where you throw me down and sex me up without asking? Or have you bite me? Or have you threaten the guy downstairs who calls me a 'little turd'?"

"He fucking WHAT?" Sam sits up. "When did this happen??"

"Uh, you were working on the house with Dean, I went to get lunch. After that one time he called us fa-"

"I'm gonna fucking kill him."

"That might be a bit of an overreaction."

"He fucking said this when I wasn't around, right? He said this when it was just you on your own? I'm gonna hurt him," Sam insists. An instinct that comes from his center, from his lungs and heart.

"I just walked away. It's no big deal. I just. You know, I wouldn't mind if you scared him a little bit."

"Consider it done. I'm gonna touch you now," he reaches over to gather Chuck up and satisfy his need... for. Like. Everything.

That douche downstairs isn't gonna wanna live here anymore when Sam's through with him. Sam barely lets his own brother talk smack to Chuck. He's sure as shit not going to allow a bigoted stranger to so much as mock him in passing.

He blisses out on the thought for a while. Because Chuck said he could. Because caveman stuff is alright with him sometimes. He can fantasize about protecting him. About everyone knowing where Chuck belongs and why they shouldn't try to fuck with him.

"So," Chuck tightens and clings to him. "Can you do the caveman stuff right now?" Chuck asks low, in his ear, like he's not sure.

"Yeah. What do you need, sweetheart?"

"Can you toss me on the bed and decide that for me?"

"Should we have a password for this kind of thing? Or a safeword, I mean?"

"What about both? What if we have a password to start and a safeword to stop?"

Whatever makes him feel right. "Words are your department. Which are we using?"

Chuck considers. He pushes Sam's hair over his ear. "How about. Oxford, to start."

"Like the town where I found you?" he smiles.

"Yeah. And Arizona to stop because you wanna stop before you have to go there."

Sam rolls his eyes. "You would. Okay. Oxford and Arizona. Arizona means 'no,' means 'stop.' That's easy enough to remember."

"I mean. I don't wanna be doing hardcore rough stuff."

"I know, please trust me. I know."

"I do. Okay. So. Oxford?"

"You're totally sure?" Sam checks one more time.

"Sam. Oxford." He nods.

Sam lets go and gets to his feet. He reaches down and hauls Chuck up and lifts him over his shoulder, takes him to the kitchen. Drops him off on the counter.

Chuck settles in. "Oh, good. I'm hungry."

"I know. I'm making birthday breakfast. And you're gonna figure out your next present," he kisses Chuck's nose and gets everything from way up on top of the fridge. Hands both over in a grocery bag.

"Rock candy on a stick."

"Yeah, you can stir and melt it in, instead of just straight sugar."

"FRENCH PRESS," he enthuses. "Sam! My hipster cred is about to go through the roof. How does this work??"

"Um, I actually don't know. I've never really used one! You just _assumed_ I'm more of a hipster than I am," he shrugs.

"Ugh," he cracks open the box and starts reading the directions. "This may be too much work for the first cup of the day."

"You wanna make it the lazy way first and we'll figure it out later?"

He nods. "Come here." He sets his presents aside and Sam moves to stand between his knees.

"Don't hit your head on the-"  
Chuck _slams_ the back of his neck into the-  
"Cabinet," he finishes, wincing.

"Holy. Fuck. It's like the kitchen table all over again. I get seriously happy and-"

"The kitchen beats you up for it. It's my fault, I put you up here," he starts pulling Chuck away and up but he settles back again, head lolling against the cabinet.

"No, I'm staying. You put me here for a reason. Oxford."

Sam frowns but settles against him. Presses his fingers into Chuck's thighs.

"Thank you for my presents. What do _you_ want for my birthday? I wanna give you something, too."

"I want you. But I want you to eat first."

"Okay. Lemme stay here while you make me a grilled cheese for breakfast."

"I can do that."

For Chuck's birthday, Sam wants him to have two whole grilled cheeses and eat his vitamins and drink a full glass of _actual_ plain water because he doesn't do that enough. Sam won't say anything, but this is another year that Chuck wasn't even supposed to have and a string of tight nerves runs through him, now, worrying about keeping him healthy and alive and in good condition. He has to maintain that without letting Chuck get away with hiding away and sitting still too much.

They're still hunting. Now they're also building. And, of course, there's the sex.

That's maybe not good enough as far as exercise goes, but it's what he's got. And Chuck has been up for it more often than usual, lately.

So Sam's gonna see how much he can manage in one day. If he's got permission to push Chuck around a little bit and treat him as his own to take care of and covet - if he's got license to stop holding his possessive, primitive, biting instincts back because Chuck likes it - he can try some things out today. That's what he really gets for Chuck's birthday.

After breakfast, Sam moves his chair and tugs on Chuck till he comes over to his lap. Whispers in his ear, "I don't have to ask, right?"

Chuck nods.

Sam makes him get up and sit straddling him. Then he pulls his shirt aside to bite at Chuck's shoulder and make a mess of him. He puts his hand down the back of Chuck's shorts and starts opening him right then and there and it sets off a three-hour marathon of sex and bathing and Sam leaving beautiful bruises all over him as he moans for more. Sam washes him and even washes his hair just so and settles Chuck on the counter to carefully dry him off and kiss down his body. Talks the most intense, possessive shit, going further than he usually does just to test the boundaries.

Though they agreed on 'Arizona,' Sam can't help but back off a little any time Chuck says, "seriously, stop," even if he's just flushed and flustered by the praise. He also doesn't press or toss Chuck around without soothing his hands all over him, after. He's not too great at that. He knows Chuck likes to get thrown around, but there's a line between the amount of force Sam's used to exerting and the kind of force he's okay with exerting on his significant other. It's hard for him to toe around.

"You can say more," Chuck eventually offers, when Sam is handing him into the car so they can go on a birthday dinner date.

Sam hesitates, waits to get in the other side before asking, "But, like, how much more?"

"I haven't said the safeword yet."

"I don't wanna get to that point, though," Sam frowns. "I don't want to have to stop after you ask. I should be better about knowing your boundaries."

"You need to realize that words are my real kink, Sam. I can take words further than the physical stuff. Like I don't actually wanna be handcuffed and held down and at your mercy but... you know, I. I could stand to hear more about," he shrugs.

"More about what?" Sam glances away from the road to him briefly.

Chuck shrugs again, not giving anything away.

Sam thinks as he drives. "So you don't wanna be held down. But. You want me to say. That." He bites his lip, considers. "You want me to say that I'm the only one allowed to touch you."

Chuck nods.

"I'm the only one allowed to make you come and I don't like it when you try to do it yourself. I don't want you touching your own cock when we're doing it my way. When we do this Oxford thing, you can only touch me and tell me where you need to be touched. And when-- so, if you're just watching- or if you're just sitting there writing," he decides, instead, "and you need me but you're not done writing. I can sit under you and open you up while you work. And. You know. Pull you onto me and fuck you until you can't write anymore. And. Then when your attention is mine, I get to keep you. I get to take you away from the writing and I get to have your words. You tell me how you need me and I touch you until you're worn out on it. Then I keep anybody from coming near you. Because I'm allowed to protect you and-"

"Pull over," Chuck says, and it comes out strained.

"You okay?"

"Pull over or I'll have to touch myself without you," he says.

"You're not allowed to, though," Sam shakes his head and finds a parking lot.

When he finally throws it in park, they're a mess of mouths and hands and Chuck's begging. "Bite me again. I like the biting now, please bite me again. I want hickies, I want everyone to know you protect me and my skin is only for you."

Sam gasps and angles Chuck's neck to suck on, opening his pants with the other hand.

"I'm not allowed to move myself. Put my hands where they should go," Chuck prompts.

Sam stops what he's doing to move Chuck's hands to his hair.

Chuck threads his fingers in and rubs lightly at Sam's head.

"Don't move. Not even your hips. I wanna do all of this myself. You said I could."

Chuck just shuts up and moans. Holds still except to press his head against Sam's. They stare.

"Look down," Sam tells him after a while. And knows that's hotter, to watch his big hand work over Chuck.

He gasps and moans again.

Sam turns his touch exploratory. He tries to figure out how to get him to make the right noises until the car is just full of Chuck's incoherent sounds.

"You're studying me," he whispers, voice wrecked.

Sam nods. "I wanna do this more often. Slow and figuring you out. I have to always know how to do this to you. I have to know your body better. It's for me," he pushes a hand, rough, up Chuck's thigh. "This is all for me."

Chuck cries out a little and clings to his head, trying not to roll on Sam's lap.

"I know you said you want hickies, but you end up hurting sometimes. I'll give you a couple more but that's it."

Chuck actually whines like a wounded animal. "More."

"No. Just two. We'll see how you feel about them after dinner."

"That totally defeats the purpose! I wanna look like-"

"I don't want you in pain. And I don't need to watch other people staring at you thinking I'm the one who put you in pain. Don't need anyone staring at you, bottom line. Someone might see how pretty you are and try to take you away from me," he says, letting a dose of worry creep into his voice.

"Oh god. It wouldn't work. Please kiss me?"

Sam does because he's owned as much as he owns.

His hands keep up their study and he closes his eyes to kiss down Chuck's jaw and finishes the first mark he started making. He bends to the other side to work slower on the next mark. He strokes slow, too, and everything happens with more intent. He wants to make the second mark perfect because that's where he's stopping.

"Do more," Chuck pleads, "just one more."

"If I do one more," he says against the back edge of Chuck's jaw, "I'll end up doing six more."

Chuck probably can't help that his hips practically pop up. He's a moaning mess again.

Sam finishes working on the second mark and he starts kissing all sweetly up Chuck's face, to the corner of his eye. "Look down again," he prompts. "Look what I do to you."

Chuck does and shivers for it.

"Look how perfect you are in my fist like this," he pushes his other hand into Chuck's pants to work back toward his ass. "I can feel my ring on you."

"Me, too," he kind of... squeaks.

Sam smiles against the side of his face. "If I proposed to you first, it would have been like this. Me losing my mind, watching how we look together. Me here just begging you to be my husband. I lost myself so many times wanting to tell you how much I wanted you to stay. Every time I was inside you I thought about it."

Chuck yells and doesn't hold back anymore. Pumps into Sam's fist and presses his name into his mouth. Sam lets him and pulls back, gasping, to lick his hand and keep working and Chuck comes at the feel of it. Sam's always about that - always wanting to drag his own spattered fingers over his tongue to taste him.

"Oh god, we're so getting married," Chuck babbles.

"Yeah," Sam smiles. "I can't wait to marry you in front of everyone. I'm gonna pull out your chair and hold your hand and tell them your order and protect you from everything. I'm gonna check on your bruises and call you gorgeous and smile at you like the complete fucking moron I am."

"Hey," Chuck objects to the phrasing.

"And my fiancé is a famous writer. He saved my life and he cries when I tell him this is real," Sam presses back in and against his ear. "When I tell him I'm so in love with him. Something so simple, like how we're gonna stick by each other and be safe and quiet until we're old. How I love his scrawny neck with all my bruises on it," he gently tucks Chuck in and pulls him close to stroke his back, under his shirt. "How I wake up and wanna kiss him every morning and feel his scruffy face. How I can't wait for him to wake up and be in my day with me so I know it's real, too. Shh," he brings his other hand up to brush his thumb over Chuck's lashes. "Oh sweetheart," he says, just above a breath. "Happy birthday. Significant Other. Most significant thing. I will be right here for you. Always-always-always."

"Stop," Chuck tries again, weak and quiet and Sam knows, now, he doesn't have to.

"I love you. I can't wait to be married to you. You have to tell me what else you want for your birthday," he closes his eyes and kisses Chuck's head and just hangs on to him

"For my birthday I want you to tell me that every birthday is gonna be like this," he says, serious and quiet.

"It will be. Yeah. It'll be this and better." He would promise him anything. It's reckless and he knows it and they might not even be alive long enough to really retire from hunting, but he's gonna promise anyway.

They stop at a grocery store to use the bathroom sinks and make themselves presentable again.

When Chuck washes his hands and face, Sam pockets his ring.

So he can propose at dinner.  
Again.

«»

This is what happens when Chuck is too well-rested because Sam has been spoiling the ever-loving fuck out of him.

He ends up crawling on Sam's back at 5:55 in the morning.

"Wow. Is this really happening?" Sam says, groggy, into the pillow.

"Take me to a fancy breakfast. It can be a date."

Sam sighs and props his chin up on his hand. "What constitutes a fancy breakfast? I don't know if you know. I don't think you've ever been up this early in your life. At least not by choice."

He lays out over Sam's back. "I wanna sit out on the patio and wear sunglasses and order a mimosa and sort of," he flaps a hand, "wave at the waitstaff like, 'whatever on the menu is best,' or something. 'Whatever the chef decides.'"

Sam answers, point by point, tapping out each finger on the pillow. "There's too much ragweed pollen outside right now. It's fucking September and you'd _still_ get a sunburn. And over my dead body. Also, I'd love to see them bring whatever the chef makes for you. Because, on any given day, you are tired with three or more food items that you liked just fine yesterday and you'll want again tomorrow."

"I get bored. My mouth gets _bored_ , Sammy."

Sam turns to grumble into the pillow because he's got something for that mouth, yes sir.

Chuck sighs and cards his fingers through Sam's hair and puts it all to one side. He kisses the side of his neck that's exposed and then starts to dig his thumbs into the muscles of Sam's back, sort of like he does for Chuck sometimes.

Sam groans and moans a little and turns his head. "Thanks, sweetheart."

Chuck opens his mouth against his shoulder and bites light. Turns it into a wet-tongued kiss and hums against his skin.

"Alright. Okay. Fine. I'm getting up to take you on a breakfast date. Are you staying there or getting off me?"

"Oh, can you-- nah. That'll hurt your back." He climbs off and nudges at Sam until he sits up on the edge of the bed.

Sam reaches back and pulls Chuck under his arm and turns his face up to kiss. "Name the three things you're sick of today and the three things you're not sick of."

"I'm sick of eggs and celery and those peanut butter cracker packs you like. I'm down with pastries and strawberry jam and yogurt."

"I've never seen you get through an entire cup of yogurt. The consistency ends up icking you out half-way through. We've bought every flavor with the exact same result."

"Well, not _every_ flavor."

"True. We've skipped over the ones you didn't like at various points."

"Maybe I'm not thinking of yogurt. Maybe I'm thinking of pudding?"

"It's the same density, I fucking swear to you."

"Maybe I'm thinking of Jell-O?"

"Maybe you're thinking of cottage cheese?"

"Maybe just pastries and strawberry jam."

"That I can do," Sam finally agrees. "And a virgin mimosa."

"A virgin mimosa is just orange juice," Chuck sighs.

"I'm sorry. But that's what you're getting."

"Fuck," Chuck kinda shifts a little. "Oh man."

"What?"

"Mm. Nothing. Just. I guess kinda sore."

"Oh my god. Yeah. Sorry about that," Sam cringes.

"No, I liked it. You know I liked it," he looks up to get kissed again. "Let's stay up there for a while and just work on the house? For like a week solid? Let's get breakfast and then pack and then drive. I'm getting sort of impatient. I kinda want to live in our house already."

Sam rubs his hand over Chuck's shoulders. "That's still pretty far off, sweetheart. I'm sorry."

"So a week of working on it will bring us a week closer. Did you not wanna go today?"

"I was gonna wait for Dean on Monday," he admits, then palms Chuck's face again. "But you really wanna go now, huh? We can go now."

"Thanks. My ass hurts, take me to the shower."

Sam feels guilty again. "I was um. I was into it. You were just. Saying all this _stuff_."

"I know. I do that intentionally," he wraps around Sam's neck and lets himself be lifted up.

«»

Sam calls to let Dean know not to stop in Norfolk. Dean decides just to head up first thing tomorrow. He tells Sam to get a motel room for him and Cas and to buy the list of stuff that he sends via text.

Several texts come in and Chuck holds onto the phone as Dean thinks and sends them sporadically. He makes a list on paper-- three lists, really. Hunting supplies, house supplies, food. Dean doesn't differentiate which are which but Chuck kinda... knows.

The credit cards he's been using are on their last legs. He has Chuck send Dean a text about getting him new ones because all this shopping will clean him out.

And he immediately blows one of them taking Chuck to a seriously bougie breakfast place.

He narrows his eyes when they park. "You didn't really have to take me to a nice breakfast."

"I want to, though. A breakfast date is a good idea. We can write a story about it."

Chuck smiles at him. "What do you have in mind?"

Sam raises one finger for him to wait. Kills the engine and gets out and goes to the other side of the car. Opens Chuck's door and puts out his hand.

Chuck plays along, takes the assistance.

Sam slips the hostess a twenty and asks for a table by the window. It means they have to wait for a moment, but that's alright. Sam turns to take Chuck's jacket and folds it over his arm. Keeps his hand again and kisses it. "Thanks for last night," he prompts, "I don't do that often."

Chuck mulls this over until they're shown to a table. "Do you do _this_ often? Take people to breakfast the next morning?"

"No. Not at all, actually. You're the first."

"Was I that good?"

"Yes," Sam sinks into a heated, unfamiliar, sexy look. "Are you a coffee person or a tea person?"

"I think," Chuck considers. And on their waiter's approach decides to be, "a tea person."

The waiter helps them order some kind of fancy (caffeinated) tea and these thin pancakes with berries and fruit.

Chuck clears his throat. "This is really different for me."

"One night stands?" Sam asks.

"Yesss... and messing around with married guys," Chuck points to the ring. "Kind of shatters some illusions."

"I never said I was a good guy," Sam decides.

"So I'm your ass on the side?" Chuck grins.

"I have an opening for a paramour, and," he motions to their surroundings. "I can clearly afford to keep you in comfort."

"Sugar daddy? Really?" Chuck is delighted. "Wow. I guess I'm a tea person with no morals because I'm absolutely okay with that."

"Was I that good?" Sam shoots back.

"Yeah."

They decide that Chuck is a lonely accountant who Sam met in a bar. Sam's rich and his marriage was for show and he already knows his wife is seeing someone else, so, why not?

"Hold on. We met in a bar," Chuck says. "Why am I not having a mimosa?"

"You already said you're a tea person. And you have to drive this morning," he adds. "I brought you here in that fabulous sports car and you wanted to drive it back," he 'reminds' Chuck.

Chuck leans across the table, suddenly excited, whispers, "Oh my god. Can we steal that Maserati parked out there and-"

"Not without drawing lots of attention," he frowns and leans over and drops a kiss on his mouth. "Sorry babe."

"Oh! I'm a babe, now?"

"That's what I like to call you."

Chuck squints at him. "Do you even know my last name?"

Sam squints. "Honestly, I can't recall. You were saying so many other amazing things last night. I have all those memorized, instead."

Chuck sits back. "Really?"

"Every 'yes', every moan," he assures him. "So, can I take you to my second home and debauch you further?"

"Am I really about to abandon my simple little life to play your concubine?"

"You can quit your boring job and travel the country with me. Dine at the finest roadside establishments," Sam grins.

"Maybe I was seeing somebody?" he holds up the hand with his own engagement ring.

Sam shrugs. "Leave them. Let's go wild."

"Okay. Guess I just dumped Nice Guy Sam for Rich Guy Sam. I'm such a scumbag," he grins back.

"Don't get attached, though. This is just about having fun," Sam warns him.

"Sure," he shrugs. "Fun. Until your wife sees your accounts and notices you've put me up in a really plush apartment."

"But you're an accountant. Can't you fudge something to protect our little fuck-nest?"

"I'll check out the books, see what I can do. What happens when I do get attached and I fall in love and ask you to finally leave her? Because that always happens. Because I'm totally weak for every version of you."

"Ah," Sam puts down his fork to motion regally with his teacup. "See, here's the thing: I tell you I don't do attachments like that. I tell you we're not in love because I don't do that."

"But wh- well, I can't-- Sam. I can't just _forget_ I love you. What am I supposed to do?"

"You're not as heartless as you thought you were. So you leave the apartment empty and go back to your little life with your little job and you try to be happy."

"But I miss you."

"Yeah," Sam kinda melts. "And I try to deny it, but I miss you, too."

"Well, now I'm bummed," Chuck picks at his plate.

"So am I. So I let my wife have my fortune and I show up on your doorstep, penniless and begging."

"You wouldn't be penniless," Chuck scoffs. "You can afford a decent lawyer."

"So I show up on your doorstep and beg to take you to breakfast. The same place we came the first time. With the tea you like."

Chuck gives a quiet little laugh that looks kind of pained. He sets his fork aside, too. "I love you so much. What a dramatic story. Thanks for playing with me."

"Long as I end up with you when we're finished telling it," he shrugs.

"Yeah," Chuck stares off, out the sun-drenched window. "You bring me back here and apologize. And swear you understand, now, that you really loved me the whole time. You just needed me to show you."

"We're some sad sacks."

"But we're still rich, right? We still have your second home?"

"I'll pick up the check right now and take you there, babe. You'll never want for anything again." Sam grins, "Sorry, but I like this story. I like when they go bad but they end happily ever after."

"Typical. Such an easily-pleased reader. How uncomfortable did you feel being a snobby, selfish prick?"

"SO uncomfortable!"

"Next time we'll make you a pediatrician or something," Chuck soothes. "Or at least a philanthropist."

«»

They drive through rain and it looks like it may follow them north, but they don't lose their good spirits about it.

This is the kind of day they'd have when Sam would draw him out of his apartment and off to nowhere in particular. Just pleased with each other's company and talking about stuff they've learned and picking apart and reassembling the stories they've told together.

It's the kind of happy, average day where he's just kinda hyped on the idea of having a best friend.

He just feels good.

It's weird and rare and remarkable.  
He wishes every day was like this.  
Sam just loves Chuck so much. It's such a comfort to discover that days like this can happen more and more.

Really he's just got to listen. He just needs to follow Chuck's instincts for enjoying their time. Even if it does rain all day, they'll still be together. They'll touch the pieces of their house and plan things. He wanted breakfast and it was good. He wanted to go north and it was perfect.

So when he starts yawning early, Sam gets them into a motel and trusts that it's time for bed, even if it's not that late.

Chuck hums, pleased to have his clothes taken off of him. He pulls Sam down into the covers with him, smiling. Tucks Sam into himself as the big spoon. Cuddles his head and talks softly until he falls asleep

Sam can't wait. He can't wait for this to be the rest of his life. Even if days like this only come once a month between all the teaching and hunting. Even if he never manages to slow down. This. This every once in a while. It's perfect. To be talked to senselessly and without stopping and not once bothering to mention the end of the world. To have his significant other looking out for him, his brother coming up to help him. To be well-fed and cared for. To hear Chuck whisper in passing, "Yeah, love you," and "Okay, love you," and "Hey? I love you." To know he's safe and the people he loves are safe. To know there's a tomorrow and plans to be made. To feel Chuck's breathing against his back, his breath in his hair, his fingers, one-two-three-four-thumb, spread out on Sam's chest to hold him close.

It's dreamscape good. Pinch-me good.

Unexpected. And, according to the person who wants to marry him, deserved.

He closes his eyes and, for once, in a very long, hard life, he chooses to accept that.

«»

The next day, when Sam and Dean come back with a load of building materials, Chuck drags him off to the northwest of the property, almost to the area that doesn't belong to them.

"You have to reach something for me."

"Okay."

He stumbles to a halt when he sees. And Chuck grins and keeps pulling him forward. "They're keepsakes," he says.

They have a fucking apple tree. "Keepsakes," Sam repeats, baffled. He stretches on his toes and he can reach one that's ready to be pulled, bends the branch down snagging it.

Palms the fruit and offers it to Chuck, at a complete loss.

Chuck rounds the tree and points to another that's easier to grab.

They have five apples when they're done. All he could reach without a ladder. Five good, flawless apples. They have fucking apples. _They have a goddamn apple tree._

They carry their little harvest to the creek and wash each off. Chuck bites into one still crouched over the rocks and water. Chuck offers it over as he chews.

Wow. It's _good_.

He looks at their bitten apple and just, "What the fuck?"

"Right??" Chuck agrees.

They bring the rest back and Cas takes one, curious. Smells it. "Pesticide-free," he comments, "that's refreshing." And Sam shrugs, because, yeah, obviously. He didn't even know the tree was there.

"Like Eden and shit," Dean says chewing. "Who gave who the apple?"

That's not funny at all. They side-eye each other and don't name names.

«»

Chuck comes with him to interview a witness. Sam is "Agent Kiedis" with the FBI's Cyber Crime division and Chuck is "Technical Analyst Navarro" carrying one of their laptops and two of their tablets and a very tiny data stick that Charlie needs planted in the building.

She's been contracted with them, previously, and shouldn't be seen on the property, so she just preloaded instructions onto everything and trusted Sam to keep the executives distracted with wild implications about their involvement in the death of their programmer. She's in Chuck's ear, leading him around some of the wires and plugs when their host, the Director of Finance, licks her lips and agrees to get the other senior staff, only-

Well her tells are a little wild. She's obviously cloaking something but she's doing it in a way that Sam never handles well - she's flirting, overtly.

She bites her bottom lip and her eyes are hooded and she finally uses her heel to creep the door closed behind her. Leans against it, and her eyes _consume_ Sam like she's starving for a look at him in a few less layers.

"You sure we can't just keep this between us?"

"Uh." He thumbs over his shoulder. "Us and the _tech_ ," he reminds her that there's a third person in the room.

She winks. "He can watch. Or we can let him work. And I can show you to my office."

Chuck drops something behind him.

Sam stutters and loses grip on his fake tirade about how everyone here has been complicit in a murder and he just. Blushes. Goes hot. Finally shakes himself. Lifts his hand. "I'm. Uh. Engaged."

"She wouldn't have to know," she shrugs, cocks her head.

Sam snorts. He can already see Chuck reenacting this for Dean, both of them laughing their dicks off when his brother flawlessly predicts his stumbling and the way she's about to back him into a server stack.

Shit. He's gonna have to-

"He," Sam shrugs. "He's, um. Uh. Hotter than you."

She dead-stops.

Almost looks offended. Whips the door open and announces, "I'll have everyone assembled in ten minutes in the boardroom. It's upstairs and directly off the elevator."

Chuck waits until the door falls shut behind her to sigh really loud. "You coulda scored so hard right there."

"Shut up, how many-"

"Charlie says three minutes. Somebody ought to tell your fiancé how precious you are when you're fending off the ladies."

Sam starts to reply but Chuck gets that vague, confused look that means there's a voice in his earpiece.

"No. The Director of Finance just tried to fuck him in front of me."

He flinches when even Sam can hear the burst of Charlie's laughter on the other end.

«»

They sneak out without having to face any of the staff again and let Charlie's programming do its magic.

They get back into the van full of equipment and.

Chuck won't look at Sam. And it doesn't look like it's because he's about to laugh at him.

Chuck takes the earpiece out and turns it off. He climbs into the back to hook it up in its charger and set the laptop back up. Sam climbs in back and closes it when Chuck does all he was supposed to. It can process information without one of the family being able to pop up on video chat.

"I'm sorry about that," he says.

Chuck shrugs. "Are you kidding me? It's not like you can turn all that off."

Sam physically lifts Chuck's chin so he'll look him in the eye. "My fiancé's hotter."

Chuck rolls his eyes, "Oh, come on."

"Chuck. Stacked and racked isn't what I'm into. You know it. You know better than anyone."

"Well, maybe, but knowing you isn't an insta-fix for low self-esteem. Don't let it bother you. You did that perfectly. I'm not gonna make fun of you. I couldn't have asked for better."

Sam gets on his knees because it's just easier back here. "Sweetheart, you're exactly-"

"If I gave you permission to step out if you got bored with me-"

"You can decide not to finish that sentence so I don't have to march back into that building and sock that woman in the jaw because that was actually gonna be my last resort to get her to shut up," he shakes his hands in front of himself and he doesn't even know why. He would like the fastest possible route out of this conversation, please and thank you. "Whatever got her out of my face and didn't make my significant other feel like shit because I know you, too. And I knew you'd take this as a hit eventually. I've been lucky up till now but I knew that couldn't hold." He blows out a big gusting breath. "You're wearing one black and one blue sock today."

Chuck blinks. Looks down at his feet in the dark of the van. Looks back up and says, "What?"

"It's hard to tell the difference between your socks because they're so dark but you've got one blue and one black on today and I remembered that that's on purpose because you sort of shrugged and just matched two of them without holes and that's the pair you're wearing today. I made a mental note of it because we're gonna go find a store and get you new ones after dinner."

Chuck shakes his head clear and stares at him.

"Hi, my name's Sam Shurley, I'm fucking obsessed with you."

"Don't!" he reaches for Sam's mouth. "Don't-don't-don't say that I'll get in so much trouble with Dean if you ever say that in front of him! What color was her hair?" Chuck asks, a little breathless.

"Wha. Um. Blonde." Blonde? "She was blonde."

He's expecting some brilliant epiphany about the case but, instead, their teeth clack when Chuck yanks him in by the tie and he goes in a little rough, pushes Sam until he collides with the back of the driver's seat and he's got Chuck crouching over him. He lets Chuck take control so he can yank him down onto his lap and kiss him up close, hands under his knees folding him into place. Draws him close and keeps him there. When Chuck pulls away for air, Sam goes after the taste of his neck. The sleepy smell of it he's used to waking up with. It smells like their pillows and their pillows smell like home and home smells like _him_.

He's obsessed.

Chuck chokes around some words, then moans. Scrabbles against Sam's shoulder for a second so he sways back to breathe, too.

"She was a fucking redhead," Chuck gasps. "You never get that wrong."

"Wel- well," he sputters, " _naturally_ blonde, though, it was just dyed."

Chuck shoves his shoulder, "You're guessing! You're fucking guessing at that! You were literally too freaked out to pay attention!"

"I thought you said you weren't gonna laugh at me!"

"I'm not laughing! I'm hotter than her! In your warped, twisted, deep-fried brain-"

"Hey!"

"-I'm hotter than a redhead with perfect legs and tits out to here!"

"You're in love with me!!" he throws back like an accusation.

"I really am!!" he cackles like wild. "And you're so in love with me you lose your hunter senses trying to keep your story straight with a witness fucking flirting with you and-"

"What the _fuck_ are we yelling about?!?!"

"This is my victory cry! I'm gloating!"

Sam finally slumps. "Can you do that quietly? We're still in their damn parking lot."

Chuck grins at him. "You really want me to _come quietly_ , Agent Kedis?" he challenges.

Well. Fucking _never_. He tugs Chuck back in close. Considers him. Considers how fast they can do this before someone comes knocking.

Because he kind of owes Chuck an orgasm for putting up with this.

"We can drive back, first," Chuck's still grinning, eyes all hooded and body soft and easy in Sam's hands.

"Kiss me," is all he thinks and all he ends up saying.

Chuck uses his tie, again. But he's slow and restrained this time. Careful and pleased.

Sam grabs his ass and rocks him on his lap.

"The van's gonna-" Chuck teeters his hand back and forth, lets Sam kiss down his neck.

Sam plants the same kiss seven times on the side of his neck. "Can I?"

"Can you what?"

"You know."

"I know several things. I'd like you to use your words," he plays fingers into Sam's hair.

He groans, low and wordless and pulls him tighter so Chuck can feel how hard he's getting for him.

"Thanks. That's very nice. But you expect me to make noise all the time while refusing to make your own."

"Trying to listen to you," he whispers.

"Fine. Then we take turns. I say, 'Yes, you did a good job, Sammy. I appreciate not being sidelined,' and you say?"

"Can I fuck you?"

"Goddamnit, no, slooow down, Sam."

"We're like- the building is _right there_."

"And the laptop may be closed, but you know she could still turn the mic on," he points out.

These factors combined should get him to calm down, but then - unrealistic as it may be - he imagines that shifty businesswoman on the other end, listening in and. Shit. He wishes she could. An overwhelming desire to rub it in her face takes him over. He wishes she'd hunt them down to the parking lot and hear what he does to his _fiancé_ , the way he makes him lose it, and-

Sam's cell rings.

Chuck digs down in his pocket and answers. "Special Agent Kedis," he says, his voice unfairly collected for the way he's hanging onto Sam's shoulders. "We're out but we had to make a stop, we'll be back around after a while. Sam's trying to apologize with coffee." He waits. "I will, thanks." Hangs up. "She said you better get me a really big one," he tosses the phone into the front seat, still letting Sam roll him on top of himself.

Sam hopes that the Director of Finance gets confused and fed up of waiting for them. He hopes she calls while they're fucking.

He hopes he gets to ignore her while he's sucking cock.

"Can I lay you back?"

"Yes."

Sam tries not to bump either of them into the ceiling or the chair or the equipment. He holds Chuck's head unfolding him and laying him out.

"Can I take your clothes off?"

"If we have to drive away real fast-"

"Can I open your pants?"

"Yes."

"Can I-- Can you put your hands on me?"

Chuck reaches for his belt. "You gonna get me a big one?"

"A big one of literally whatever you want."

"A big one o-"

"Yes," he swallows harsh and thrusts into Chuck's hands, not even out of his pants yet. "Can I please give you a fucking mark??"

Chuck frowns a little.

"Please say yes," he begs.

"This is already kind of uncomfortable enough. Ask me for something else."

"Fuck. Can I taste you?"

Chuck pulls him down over himself. "No. Here's what you can do. Pull me out. Pull us both out."

Sam pushes their clothes out of the way, scrambling now. Chuck hiccups a breath when Sam touches him - hard and wanting.

"Together. You and me in your big-" he gasps "-hand oh god yes. Yes. Fuck yes," he starts chanting as Sam grinds them both together. "Tell me what you want," Chuck requests.

"Wanna give you hickies. Want everybody to know I'm fucking you. Wanna come on you. Wanna get you gasping," he gasps himself as Chuck moans. "You're mine and--" he stops to readjust them, to put a hand to Chuck's center so he can feel it happen. "Never gonna let anyone else touch you. Remember I promised that? Only me and I'm gonna treat you so right. Never going away. Never gonna look at anyone else. The only thing I feel like doing at the end of the day is you. I want you. Want you hard for me. Want everybody to know I fuck you and take care of you and it's my job to make you come." About the time the last of the tension falls out of Chuck and the van doesn't rock anymore because it's just Sam moving on his knees, Chuck putty in his hands, he finally relents.

"'Kay," he moans. "Okay. You can."

Sam grunts for a minute, letting go to get over him and just drive them together. "Where??"

"Anywhere you want. My neck?"

It's gonna hurt too much if he does it now. He doesn't want to be careful. He needs Chuck to keep trusting him. He wants to, but-

Chuck draws him down for his mouth, gasps and cries into it. "Love you. Love you. Please I wanna keep you. I'll do- I'll do anything."

"Don't have to," Sam leans tight down against him. "Not going anywhere. So fucking stuck on you." He can't make Chuck see if he's gonna keep seeing them split up. "Marry me??" he asks "Chuck. Chuck, marry me." He tries to bring Chuck up, get him cresting over. Pushes his thumb up over his dick just right.

Chuck cries out, just shouting a few times before he says, "Yes! Please! Yes!" and loses it in Sam's hand, cock pulsing in his fist, tight against him.

It's Chuck coming and saying _yes_ to him again that brings him off sudden and shocked and seeing stars behind his clamped-shut eyes.

Sam gasps to get his air back. To wrench open his eyes and plant kisses exactly where they need to go. Against Chuck's twitching fingers and at his hairline and next to his eyes and then biting at his mouth.

He shouldn't feel like he has to say yes to hickies just to keep Sam. He should say yes to _them_.

He should only think about how they're gonna grow together and get married together and share names and space and time. He shouldn't feel like he has to earn Sam away from attractive people. He should feel justified in his love all on his own.

They try to cool down for a good five minutes. But Sam keeps getting drawn to his mouth. His skin. He feels so good. He's perfect under Sam. He smells great. Tastes amazing.

The phone on the front seat pings a text.

They hear a car start nearby.

The world turns on, outside of the van, with them catching their breath inside.

"I want to sleep in your bed," Sam says down to him.

Chuck blinks up, still pretty dazed.

Sam's been feeling this with an increasing ferocity, lately: "I want to worship you. I to want prove I'm right for you."

Chuck closes his eyes and pulls him down to pet at his neck.

"I don't want anyone but you. I won't just reject people to be polite, Chuck. I'll be rejecting them because they're not you."

He's got the t-shirt he was gonna change back into here, hanging half-way out of a bag. He would lick Chuck clean but he's drugged-looking and there are voices outside. He cleans them up and puts Chuck's clothes back together. Draws him up to get him in the front seat.

But ends up going in to taste his mouth again.

They kiss so long they end up just having to hide in back until the staff walk off again, chatter and heel-clicking fading away to go get security.

Sam swings the van out of the parking lot faster than the golf cart can arrive.

They hit up the same Starbucks four times while on the case. Before they leave town the Director of Finance turns around from ordering to see Sam pushing a venti into Chuck's hands, kissing him on the head.

It's petty.  
He smirks at her anyway.

«»

Chuck is still thinking badly of himself.

Sam knows how he feels on a certain level because he's very used to his own inner monologue (on specific occasions _dialogue_ ) railing against him.

But no two people are depressed in exactly the same way.

There are things that bring Sam down and things that bring Chuck down. Sam only knows that it wasn't the flirty Director of Finance that did it. After Sam... _illustrated_ exactly how little he thought of anyone else, Chuck seemed quiet and pleased for several days.

Lately, though, he's been leaving the sugar out of his coffee, either staring into it or just pounding it back.

Sam isn't a fan of his sugar habit but it doesn't mean he can turn a blind eye to what's going on here. His focus and his distraction are signs Sam knows to keep track of. He wants to do something about this. Waiting doesn't work. The longer Chuck stays shut down and quiet, the more dangerous this is.

Sam thinks about something he could do for Chuck that would rattle him around, rock his world and get him to creep out of his shell a bit. At the same time, he doesn't need to expose him to some event or get him mixed in with a crowd and stress him out.

Really? He wanted to do an art museum weekend or something. But he can't guarantee they won't run into a fucking tour group or busload of students or something.

It's not as if Chuck disappears entirely and it's nothing like losing him behind a memory. But losing him in a bustle of people is not something Sam wants to risk right now.

What if he sinks behind a memory in this condition? Maybe this is more than sadness; maybe it's a warning sign that Chuck's on the verge of disappearing for a day. It hasn't happened in a while and he doesn't know whether to think they're due for an episode or if he's struck upon a groove that's prevented Chuck from drowning.

It may be that the engagement ring is working. Or maybe he could credit all the sex they were having. They stay close but, lately it doesn't go frantic and hot. It's not a slump - they still have sex. Maybe he wore Chuck out.

Oh god.

He hurt his ankle and his ribs during that one hunt and refused to have them fixed.

What if.  
What if Sam fucking hurt him and he's not saying anything??

So, great. That's flat-out terrifying. Awesome. Maybe there's a reason he's decided to start toughing it out. Maybe he's trying not to hurt Sam by telling him he's in pain.

He gnaws down a thumbnail trying to think of something to do about this. Something that will prompt Chuck to talk with him without requiring him to just haul him to the couch and demand an explanation.

They have to go shopping to replace Sam's shoes and get lightbulbs. There's a list he should make but it's hard to think around this _very central_ problem.

He finally decides to just go with it.

They'll get ice cream. They'll do something.

Chuck leaves the house with him without much complaint. Sam bundles him heavy in a scarf and a hat and gloves because he suddenly doesn't know if he can trust Chuck to admit he's too cold.

They shop for the shoes and they're heading to the car again when Chuck pauses at a weird point and tugs on his hand.

Sam blinks down at him.

"Sam. Let's um." He points.

He's sort of baffled. "You wanna go to the pet store??"

Chuck gives him kind of a sharp look for his tone. So. Okay. He drops his new shoes off in the car and they cross the shopping center to the pet store.

It's weird of Chuck to even ask. Sam had really, solidly assumed that pets were out of the question with Chuck. He kinda forced himself to come to terms with it back when he was just kicking around the idea of trying to get into his pants.

It's something he figured he'd miss out on for the rest of forever between Dean and Chuck.

They look at cats first. "I hate cats," Chuck says. "Like, they despise me and the feeling is mutual. But look at the fucking names on these things. Betty Boop," he points, "Shadow. Tugboat. And Todd. Fucking Todd. I mean. Who names a cat Tugboat, but who names a cat _Todd?_ " he sounds almost angry about it. Sam has to laugh.

There are hamsters and gerbils and Chuck expresses no opinion on them. "I always wanted a snake," Chuck says when they pass the lizards. "Snakes are warm and clean and slinky."

"Slinky?" Sam repeats.

"I don't know. I like snakes. The biblical shit never ruined that for me."

"Huh."

Chuck makes no comment on the wall of fish tanks.

Sam tugs him to a stop. "You never told me what Alex is," he indicates the fish.

Chuck hesitates. "Jellyfish."

Sam thinks about that. He's been stung before. It's a really good wallop, too. He was a kid, at the time. Went running, crying to Dean.

They tried to go to the beach again a week later, when he was less sour about it.

So many jellyfish had washed up on shore the beach was closed as a hazard.

He rubs Chuck's back. Chuck doesn't go to the beach so he wonders if he's thinking of Sam's memory and equating Alex with that. Beautiful, deadly things that can't always fight the tide.

"She'll be okay," Sam whispers.

"We don't know that. We really don't. She was so fucking exasperated with me for making her realize what she knew. She runs off to college and if she cuts ties. It's basically. It's just," Chuck tosses his hand, at a loss or not wanting to say it.

Sam hated realizing what he knew, too. He ignored it and.  
Jess.

Yeah. He winces a little. "Like you said, we have to make sure the other ladies keep in contact with her. Go take her to lunch and sleep over sometimes. We have to build a better family so she wants to stay a part of it."

Chuck stares at the fish, like he's emptied back out again and curled up inside himself and has nothing more to say.

They were getting somewhere. Chuck was showing him something and whatever Sam said, or however they navigated to this point in the conversation -- somehow, Sam just lost him again. Dammnit.

Sam keeps rubbing his back until he sways a little. Until he just wants to lean down and hold him instead.

When he finally does, Chuck turns in his arms and reaches up and hugs him. "I'm gonna fuck this up, so bear with me," he says.

"Sweetheart, you're not fucking _anything_ up, I swear," Sam's quick to jump in.

"No. I mean." He takes a ragged breath and falls back so Sam has to look at him. "I don't know how to be friends with dogs. I lied. Cats love me but I hate cats. They're so fucking annoying. But dogs do really hate me and people on the internet say that they don't trust people that dogs don't trust."

Sam almost wants to laugh but Chuck looks, like, _terribly fucking distressed_ about this.

"My mom told me that cats love me because I'm a quiet, lazy, nag, just like cats are. I sleep too much and I'm a demanding asshole. Just like cats. She said that's why I hate cats and cats love me. I fucking hate cats."

"Well I fucking hate your mom-" Sam blurts before thinking. "SORRY. Sorry, no, I didn't mean-"

"It's fine," Chuck shrugs as if he truly doesn't care.

This is so weird. "You're not a lazy nag. You're not a demanding asshole. Where does this shit come from??"

"Sam, the point is that I don't think a dog will ever trust me. And you. Sammy. _Squid_. You deserve a dog. You deserve a dog if you want a dog," he looks lost and upset and Sam is only getting angrier and more confused.

"Who says dogs can't like you?" he just demands.

"I got bit by like four dogs as a kid. Dogs hate me. I'm not wild about them, either, but they're kind and they seem fun and they _love_ you and they'll never love _me_ and how am I gonna give you the fucking house and life and _marriage_ you deserve if we can't ever have a dog??" Chuck frets with increasing volume.

All Sam can think is _please tell me this isn't really just about dogs_ because he has no fucking clue what to do with that. He attempts to hush Chuck a little. It doesn't really matter, there's no one in the surrounding aisles, but he'd prefer the freakout over the silence and if the freakout is gonna happen _here_ he at least needs to direct him behind a display or something so they can have a family freakout in a little bit of privacy.

"I can't believe I've been quiet about it this whole time," Chuck rambles on, eyes wide. "I haven't said a goddamn thing. I keep hoping I won't have to deal with a dog for years, but if dogs can't trust me and that's what I'm worried about, then how can I expect _you_ to trust me?! I need you to. I need someone in your life to never ever tell you fucking lies and just be straight with you! Sam, you've gotta have people you can trust no matter what and if you can't trust me about _dogs_ I-"

"Shh-shh-shh, stop-stop-stop, I have NO problem trusting you. You've never done anything but tell me the truth, even when it was a truth I didn't wanna hear, Chuck! Even all the way in the beginning! Is this really what this is coming from? From dogs??"

"Sam, you love dogs, you _long_ for dogs, you _play with dogs_ and _talk to dogs_ and-"

"I'm fine not having a dog!!" he insists. "Dean can't stand dogs! It's been just fine!"

"But you can't _never_ have one again just because-"

"Why would dogs outrank you??! What the hell is going on here?? Why would I say I'd marry you and then regret it for all time because I don't get to walk a dog on occasion?! This isn't making sense, Sweetheart, you've _got_ to take a breath and think through this with me!"

Chuck's eyes zip all over the place and he's looking for words to object until Sam just takes his face in both hands, clunks their heads together, and "Stop," he orders.

Chuck takes a breath.  
Deflates.

He turns his head and crashes against Sam and stares at the fish for a while longer.

Sam can hear the dogs barking at the front. They were making a circuit around the store. In front of him, a ways away from the tanks, are the birds.

He takes Chuck's shoulders in his hands and turns him. Marches him over. "Come on. Birds."

So they stare at birds for a while. The hoppity, tiny little ones in pastel colors. He has no idea what they're called. He has to turn the display card around to read it. Right. Budgies.

The finches are more frantic and they don't like it when you come close.

After a while Sam shuffles him over to the big cages. Only two of them are occupied. One by a big cockatoo with that thing fanning out on its head.

It looks cheerful and pings the bars of its cage when they come near. Grabs two bars together with its beak and pings them when it lets go. The bird's name is "Charleston."

"That's not a great name, either," Sam comments.

"Palmetto" is a few cages down. Vibrant green and smaller, bright orange beak. Palmetto just ignores them, preening tail feathers and then shakes out and clicks at them.

The parrots don't move away and the cages are wide.

"I think the birds trust you," Sam comments. And promptly cringes because that's the kind of careless one-liner that might set Chuck off to bawling about the whole thing.

Goddamnit. His poor baby.

He pulls Chuck's hat off and buries his nose in his hair. Kisses his head. He doesn't cry but he doesn't say anything either. Palmetto gets bored with them and goes to pick through a food dish.

"Palmetto isn't a bad name," Chuck lays two fingers against the cage. "Good job, buddy. You're the least dorky animal in the joint."

"Including us?" Sam asks.

"Including us," he sighs.

Palmetto is indifferent to Chuck's hand. There are "please don't touch" signs everywhere but Chuck is pretty much a Winchester now and rules just stop applying at some point. Palmetto turns from chewing and licking dried veggies and turning corn kernels over in his beak to nibble at Chuck's finger and doesn't seem to think it tastes all that great. Turns away again to crunch into something.

"I trust you. I have no reason not to trust you. Maybe you were a bratty kid who accidentally stepped on dogs' tails or some shit. Maybe the dogs you met were assholes. That happens sometimes. Maybe they were mistreated and couldn't trust anyone."

"Why do cats like me, though? Because cats are assholes," he concludes.

Sam shakes his head. Chuck's mother certainly has a strange way of looking at things. "Cats are just cats. Some cats are assholes, too, but most cats just don't care."

"I don't care."

"Chuck. Stop. Who said you were allowed to talk shit about yourself? You care so much you let--" he hesitates. "You let Zachariah kick your ass," he says, still wondering at it. At how Chuck protected them. Tried to. Fought for them and tried to get heaven to lay off. He fought with an angel and got his mind and body and probably his entire timeline fucked with.

Sam called him to that motel the day Lilith came around, and Chuck kept the truth from everybody _except_ Sam.

They're supposed to keep each other in the loop. Chuck's anxieties won't just disappear here. Sam needs to find a way to pry them out of him so they can deal with it together. Sam wants to be weirdly devoted to him. He WANTS to follow Chuck around like an adoring sop. He wants it known that he cares about what Chuck thinks over anything because it would make him very smart, indeed, to be the guy who knows the value of Chuck's mind over everyone else's.

Chuck knows what he needs more than he does sometimes. Sam has maybe devoted his life to others too much. He has disconnected from his own self. He should learn to recognize Chuck as a measure of himself. Because Chuck is the one paying attention to Sam.

He doesn't pay enough attention to himself.

So, fine. If they're both so preoccupied, Sam has to pay the best attention to Chuck.

Chuck already pays the best attention to him.

Chuck thinks he can't be trusted. He takes some internet maxim about the wisdom of dogs to heart and he thinks, what? That their entire marriage will fail if Sam doesn't end up with a dog?

He really didn't think it would ever happen. But, you know what? It will. Someday when he finds a dog who knows, like Chuck does, that it ain't worth it to hate everybody. To bite first. A quiet, old dog who will be kind to his husband.

Sam takes his hand again. "Come on."

They circle up to the dogs.

There are puppies and this is a giant chain store so Sam knows these poor damn things are probably from some fucking profiteering puppy mill and it breaks his heart.

They love everyone at first sight. They want out; they want to play.

There are more associates here being overly-friendly and overly-helpful. Sam waits until they're all occupied with other people to press Chuck forward.

There's a dog named Henry.  
Yeah, that's a hell of a name, too.

Henry's very excited. He doesn't growl. He barks, he jumps.

"You're not gonna make me do this," Chuck says.

"No, I'm not," he agrees.

Chuck sighs and puts his hand out and he doesn't get bit, he just gets slobbered on and nosed at.

"I'm sorry the dogs you used to know were assholes. Chuck? We don't ever have to get a dog."

Chuck doesn't say anything to that.

"We should go. This company is like a true rich-white-devil," Sam crouches next to Chuck to wiggle his fingers at the dog and get chewed on for a bit.

"Yeah. Sorry."

"It's okay. Hey. Do you wanna bring home some fish? We can start small."

Chuck doesn't touch the dog or the cage again. Finally (fucking finally) looks at Sam, fully present, with eye contact. Not lost or sad or breaking apart inside. "I have no idea how to take care of fish. Are these rich-white-devil fish? Should we be ethically concerned about these fish?"

"Yeah, they probably are," Sam admits.

"I think Palmetto liked me."

"I know Henry did."

"I bet Tugboat would."

"Todd thinks you're a dork, though. Todd wants no part of you."

Chuck heaves himself up and waits for Sam to stand. "Todd's a prick."

"Betty Boop is probably worse."

«»

There's this fucking conman who has basically been taking them for a goddamn ride throughout this whole case. And he's Sam's only viable contact. His dad was a hunter, so the guy's a real piece of work.

a.k.a. Total Shitbag.

He may or may not be luring the Winchesters into doing his dirty work, taking out a rival occult objects salesman. They're not sure yet. They had to have the kids sit out on this one just in case it fell apart into some sort of hunting family face-off that they shouldn't have to inherit.

He may not be a Winchester yet, but Chuck wouldn't let Sam and Dean leave him and Cas behind.

And it's a good thing Chuck came or Sam might have popped a vein in his head by now.

Or been arrested for assault.

Sam first makes a lunge for the guy _in the lobby of an office building_ and Dean is there to stop him. But he isn't the next time, and Chuck has to break his promise, march into a bar, wade into a fight, and join the other patrons in holding Sam back until he lets go of the cackling son of a bitch.

It doesn't take much, to be honest.

Once he feels Chuck's hand, it's pretty well over.  
He is Fucking. Terrified. of accidentally hitting Chuck.

And now there's guilt piled on top of his anger. All because Chuck had to set foot in the bar to pry them off each other.

That should never have happened. Bars weren't really Chuck's thing, but it's still Sam's anger that drew him into a place where the sights and smells could easily be triggering.

The next time they speak, and the dude toes too close to Sam's line, evidently thinks it's _funny_ to drive him to violence, he's bound and goddamn determined to rip himself away and breathe and let Dean deal with it, no matter what insults he tries to draw Sam back in with.

But it's not just Dean there. Cas is at Sam's side as well, Chuck nearly at his back, behind his right arm, half-shielded.

And over the fuzz of rage building, his own voice building, his own impatience building, he sees Cas's eyes dart to Chuck as if Chuck had thrown a mental command at him.

Cas darts forward and pins the sleezeball to the wall by the neck. Because one follows the other, Dean's already at his other side holding a gun to his head. Sam's pause is long enough for Chuck to draw his angel blade and step calmly forward and place the tip under his jaw.

"It's getting to the point that we're all tired of hearing you," Chuck says. "Dean's ready to deliver your lobotomy, I'm gonna cut your tongue out just for the satisfaction of it, and Cas is gonna kill you with his bare hands. You can stop fucking around and answer Sam's questions or you can pick door one, two, or three. 'Cause we don't need you to start or end a war, pal. You are not that important to any of us and we're getting very." He taps the blade against his chin. "Bored." He taps again.

Even after he talks, Chuck draws a thin line of blood, anyway, swinging his blade back, just to make a point. Like the finger-shaped bruises Cas leaves on his throat and the barrel imprint Dean leaves at his temple.

They don't have to speak to him, except over the phone, again.

«»

When they get back to the motel, they don't have much time out to regroup and change and all, but Sam presses Chuck to sit at the head of the bed and sleeps with his head in his lap for the next half hour. It's heady and sudden, like an adrenaline crash.

He does the same when he returns again and again after each small crisis, each phase of the hunt. He's shaking with exhaustion each time and curls increasingly closer, arms tight around Chuck until it just gets to the point where they're out for five hours, back for one, and Sam needs to sleep between his legs, hugging him too-tight in some configuration.

He can't rest if Chuck isn't there, usually stroking his hair. At each alarm, he'll blink back awake feeling stoned. His family - they're willing to throw themselves in front of him to keep him from losing himself in the rage. It shouldn't be a shock but it is. Rattles him somewhere deep.

At the end of the hunt, Cas is available to clean him up but, instead, he just stumbles out of the car and into their room, battered and bloody and needing his person more than anything. He wants to whine and slump and have Chuck touch him, have Chuck patch him up, no matter how many times he offers to bring an angelic quick-fix back to him.

"Alright, Sammy," he allows and presses him to the closed lid of the toilet. "Tilt your head back."

Chuck wets a towel and wipes the blood off his nose and upper-lip and chin. It rasps over Sam's raggedy, unshaven face. A pathetic whine crawls up his throat.

"Sshhh," Chuck kisses his nose before taping it up. Kisses his clean mouth before bandaging shut the gash in his chin. Moves down to the slice in his shoulder. Picks fabric out of the drying blood and swabs and shuts the wound.

Chuck moves down his arms to his knuckles. When he finishes with Sam's right hand, he pulls it around himself so Sam can hang off of him. Handles the other knuckles with the same care.

He hauls Sam to his feet so he can press him to the bed and get at the graze on his thigh. He only tapes it. "You're gonna have to let Cas fix you before we leave. I won't do a good enough job with this."

"I don't want anyone else to touch me," he gripes.

"I know the feeling. But it'll be half a second for him, or me pulling at your skin for a half hour making a mess of you with the stitches. I don't need you in more pain," he comes up to lean over him. "When you come to me, it's my job to make the pain stop."

Sam reaches up to put his hands over Chuck's ears. "I'm in love with you," he announces.

Chuck's smile is tiny and knowing. "Ditto, squid. Does it hurt anywhere else?"

Sam shakes his head.

"Lemme rephrase: are you bleeding anywhere else I can't see?"

"I pretty savagely stubbed my toe when I was running."

Chuck takes his hands off and ducks to tug off his socks.

"I don't see anything horribly misshapen, I think you'll live. But," he sighs and starts tugging the sheets to one side, "You gotta pee?"

"No?"

"'Kay. You're absolutely forbidden from leaving this bed until I think you've slept enough. Do you need anything?"

"New socks. My phone charger. You. Another shirt," he babbles as Chuck tucks him in.

He brings everything to the bed for him. And he's serious about the sleep. He makes Sam sleep nine hours total before he lets him even consider moving.

"You okay?" Chuck wakes him up, petting his head again. "How you feelin'?"

"Loved," he says into Chuck's throat, and presses forward to stay close.

«»

Sam answers the door because that's his job.

"Hi," says Claire. "Dean is trying his hand at dad jokes this week and I might have beat the shit out of Aiden. Can I stay with you guys for a while?"

Chuck peeks out from behind him. "It's like she's actively trying to be my friend, I don't know if I trust it."

Sam considers them both for a moment. "I say give it a shot. You have a bodyguard. I'm pretty sure I can take her."

"We don't have a guest room. You'll have to sleep on the couch," Chuck warns her.

She shrugs. "I've had a lot of good sleep on couches."

"You beat up Aiden?" Sam asks

She shows them her right arm, lifts the sleeve to the elbow. It's a taped up mess. "I skipped out before Cas could get back. We were on a case. Aiden's a dick to Krissy and I don't know why she's still on-again with him, but that's her own business now. He better not talk to me ever."

Chuck steps back, tugs at Sam's shirt so he lets her in. They lead her into the kitchen. Sam gets the kit and cleans and rebandages her arm.

She hisses a few times, then rolls her eyes at herself. "Christ. I just remembered I'm vacationing in the sober house."

Chuck smiles. Sam sighs.

«»

They give Claire a while to stew and ignore worried calls from Dean and Cas. Then Sam calls his brother before they go to bed and assures him all is well.

Claire knocks on their bedroom door when he's on the phone. Chuck lets her in and they listen while he talks.

With more arm-crossing and eye-rolling on her part.

There are objections from Cas about Claire's training but, to this point Chuck sits next to Sam and pokes him in the side. _Books. Monster school_ , he mouths.

Sam gets it and promises Cas that this isn't vacation - there's other stuff she can learn from them.

"As if she really needs to work all the time," Chuck scoffs when he hangs up. "You guys fuck off constantly."

"Well, technically she should be in college," Sam shrugs.

"Ugh! Not you, too!" she nearly yells.

"Volume. Seriously," Sam snaps at her for the third time today.

She actually looks apologetic this time.

Chuck clears his throat. "Anyway. You guys do have something you need to do," he points out.

"We do?"

"Yeah. You're gonna help Sam build a curriculum. The non-fighting stuff you feel like you need to learn. How to spot possession and the properties of spells and how to draw sigils. Is Cas teaching you Enochian?"

She shrugs. "Yeah."

"Latin?"

She shakes her head.

"Ah. So that's me, then," Sam says, nodding.

"Right. So. In the morning, Claire tells you what she feels like she needs to start studying. And, as you work with everybody, you'll learn what else it's essential to teach them," Chuck concludes.

Sam smiles looking down at him and tugs him into his side. Stops just short of getting his crazy adoration on.

Claire looks at them like... "You guys are so mushy," she gripes. Tries not to smile.

Sam is the one to clear his throat this time. "Um-"

She turns to the door and pulls it away from the wall. "Thank fuck for muffliato. At least I won't have to hear you," she smiles and tries to make it mocking. "We'll do school stuff in the morning," she allows. "'Night."

"'Night," they echo back at her as she closes them in.

"School stuff," Sam considers.

"Do you know how many of my professors I had a thing for?" Chuck says.

Sam cocks a brow. "So basically this is gonna make you hot for teacher."

"Yeah, because you really need the help to get laid," he smiles and presses forward.

«»

Claire can be fun. And she's inquisitive which helps when Sam is working with her. But she gets bored sometimes and they don't really even know how to pretend to amuse a teenager. She declares them old farts and skips out to hop on her skateboard and explore.

She's a little loud. She's in the habit of yelling merely for emphasis or out of interest or surprise. It's also her way of running over other people's words to be heard. That isn't a problem with the rest of the family, but it is in their relatively small apartment. It's not the echo chamber that the bunker is and there aren't nearly as many people in it.

Chuck shuts himself in their bedroom to write and watch shows on his laptop while Claire and Sam work. But when they're all three together, Sam has to get pushy and tell her to lower the fucking volume.

Chuck doesn't want it to be some big deal. But, yeah.  
Yelling really does bother him.

He goes a little shuddery. Sam doesn't know if it's a head injury from maybe Zachariah or the car wreck or the volume of the house he grew up in. It doesn't quite matter.

Sam doesn't want to quash Claire's enthusiasm, but he can't allow her to hurt Chuck's head. So they are prone to getting a bit fed up with each other.

As long as they growl about it at a reasonable decibel level, Chuck doesn't care. But Sam has to check himself before Chuck starts trying to hide.

Claire doesn't give a fuck when they're close or kissing or Sam is hanging off of Chuck. He calls him 'honeybadger,' though, instead of anything else and that makes Claire smirk.

They drive to Chicago for an NHL opener. They stay in the city so Sam can take them on a tour of historic gangster locations and that's the kind of hands-on history lesson Claire can really appreciate.

They feed her well and tease each other and watch _The Godfather_ movies and then Cas shows up at their door.

Claire smiles at him and shows him some of the lesson plans she helped Sam come up with. So Cas loses his worried edge and assures her that Josie's little gang has gone on to follow a lead into Texas.

"You can just tell me you miss me and want me to come home," she declares, shutting their notebooks.

Cas glances back over to where Sam and Chuck are hovering over their coffees in the kitchen, trying to stay out of the way.

He shifts in the chair and nods. "And Dean doesn't have an archery partner. He misses you, too. While I know that Sam and Chuck have been glad to have you, there's also Charlie. But, yes, mostly me," he grins and shrugs a little.

She sighs and starts stuffing her journal and her stray sweaters back into her bag. "There's rules," Claire tells him. "I won't sleep in a goddamn motel room where Aiden has a connecting door to me. And if he talks shit, he gets hit."

"That's not a rule, that's a threat," Cas frowns.

"So he doesn't talk shit." She rolls back her sleeve. "We know he doesn't have a problem fighting girls," she shows Cas her arm, still healing from where Aiden grabbed and clawed at her. "So it's equal opportunity. He thinks he can fucking manhandle me for calling him out, I get to sock him when he calls me a bitch."

Cas moves to touch her arm and Claire yanks it away. "They took care of it. I'm fine. I don't need to get zapped. I need-"

"Aiden to leave you alone," Cas fills in. "Are you the reason he was bleeding? Aiden hadn't been out with a suspect - I couldn't figure out-- he wouldn't let me heal him."

Her head only ticks up slightly.

Cas doesn't say anything. He watches her pack. When she gets up to retrieve her socks from the laundry room, Cas blinks over at them, as if in a daze.

They look back to their coffees real quick.

Cas floats over to the kitchen after a minute. "Thank you both," he says.

"For all you know, he was bleeding because he hit her, not because she hit him. So don't phrase it like that," Chuck sips his coffee.

Cas just cocks his head.

"'Are you the reason-'" Chuck quotes. "It sounds like you're blaming her."

Cas grimaces.

"It'll help if you tell her you asked out of respect," Sam points out.

Cas wavers. "Dean said I'm not supposed to admire her for kicking the crap out of people."

Chuck almost chokes on his drink.

"Hypocrisy aside, if he wants a harmonious household in a bunker full of deadly weapons, he certainly has his work cut out for him," Sam laughs.

"You're allowed to admire her for that," Chuck adds. "We do."

It's actually a few weeks later that Sam discovers she hid a single set of clothes, rolled up small, beneath the bathroom sink. It's a good stash spot and she blended it well with the things they stowed in there.  
He leaves it, just in case.

«»

At last, Sam has researched the binding to the point of exhaustion.

There's no more evidence to be had. No more translating to do or comparable accounts to be read. He's collaborated with Cas on all the items to be used in the ceremony. He's sure of the set-up and the words.

Sam sits at the table watching Chuck put away the clean coffee mugs. He chokes back panic and fear and uncertainty. And he chooses a date.

He sends all his final information to Charlie in an email and texts Cas to check with her for it.

He closes the bedroom door and calls his brother for reassurance one more time.

Dean just wants to know that he didn't find anything especially dangerous in the ritual or the binding itself. Then he tells Sam to hang up and go tell Chuck. To talk to him now.

Sam takes a deep breath and opens the door and goes to the kitchen and pulls the clean plates out of his hands to stack on the shelf. Crowds up to his back and hooks his chin over Chuck's shoulder.

"I think. That I've figured out how the binding is gonna work. And everything. I just. I think I'm done."

Chuck stands still. "Done with...?"

"The work. I sent all the rest to the bunker. They're gonna prepare it for us. It will all be out of our hands. We'll just show up and get married. I didn't want you to have to stress about anything. That okay?"

Chuck nods. Pets the hand that's flattened over his belly.

Sam hesitates one more moment. "Is the eleventh okay?"

Chuck smiles real big and then takes a deep breath and blows it out. "Yeah. That's perfect."

"Can we talk about how this is gonna work? I mean. We'll do that right now and just make sure we're both _totally_ okay with what we're getting into - totally on the same page. And. We'll just agree. And then give the guys the green light and they handle it for us. We just have to make sure we're ready to get married."

"Yeah. Yes," he nods.

"Let me finish this for you. Make coffee and we'll sit."

Chuck nods again and they break, both of them a bit stacked up with nervous energy. Sam finishes putting the clean dishes up and Chuck heats up water to use his french press. He's concentrating on the process but he blinks up after a while. "Four-one-one," he says.

Sam laughs and nods.

"What's the 4-1-1? We're the 4-1-1. I like that."

"Well, we are pretty smart," Sam grins.

"Know-it-alls," Chuck smiles.

He puts their mugs on the coffee table and they sit on the couch and Sam really just needs to huddle into him. So Chuck accepts him into his arms with a soft expression and curves his thumb over Sam's dented ear. Tightens his knees against Sam and they know that they're both buzzing with energy a little and it's nerves and tension and some fear and worry and dash of _want_. It's everything all at the same time.

"I didn't find anything that concerns me. Maybe I should be more worried about the binding." Sam blows out a breath. "Dean's not kicking up a fuss but I know he'd be happier if I were more freaked out about it."

"There's _nothing_ about it that freaks you?"

"Well. I mean. From your reading and from making the notes and from what Cas said and everything. What do you think it will be like?"

Chuck thinks for a moment. "I've said it's like power of attorney. Like gatekeeping. And I really do feel that way. That anyone would have to ask to get anywhere past our surfaces. I think it's like that. And. I think there's some kind of... awareness. Or interface. Like we have windows into each other if that's something we want to utilize. That's what I think it is," he concludes after piecing his words together carefully.

Sam nods. "That's what it seems like to me. She didn't-- the narrator? The woman who wrote it? She didn't go through it herself. But her parents and her sister did. And she said something like they could share or they could see through to each other or they could get vibes from one another. Like feelings may cross the bind so loud it could give their partner a headache or make them worry. But that it wasn't the same with everyone?" At least that's kind of the impression he got. "The one constant - and I mean. Chuck. You did a fucking really good job on this," he laughs. "The one constant was that no one could lay a whammy on them if their partner forbade it. Spells would rebound, even _prayers_ would rebound. The influence of higher powers would rebound if it wasn't allowed. It seems like they had... long-distance protection. Like they had backup, 24/7. I'm so fucking amazed that you found this and you chipped away at it. I'm so fucking. I just. You're so goddamn smart. And you're asking to protect me like this and." Sam shakes his head. "I can't tell you how many times I've been blown away by that while I've been working on this. And I'll look down at you beside me and see you sleeping or look over and see you watching shows or whatever. And the fact that you found this. And you're willing to stand between me and the world. You're gonna stand in front of me and be bulletproof." He adjusts and Chuck shifts so Sam can hug him.

"You deserve it. I don't know if all the damage the prophecy did will make me weaker at it. But somebody's gotta try, Sam. And if you'll marry me." Chuck gets a little choked up. "I wanna be that guy so much."

The fact of the matter is that they don't have first-hand accounts of what this is.

They can know one thing about the binding for sure: no one who participated in it got hurt - it was the people who messed with them that got hurt. And that made heaven nervous.

People didn't even get hurt when the ritual failed. It just flopped. It just didn't take. It was intense and then the spell broke, like a puff of smoke and no results, and it was decided that those people weren't for each other.

So Sam has to ask. It hurts but he has to ask. "Are we gonna talk about the fact that the ritual can. Can just-."

"Not connect. It can just," Chuck tosses out a hand like _poof_.

"Yeah."

Chuck takes a big breath that rocks Sam up and down on top of him. "It's like. At least from what I read? Psychically, it's a little rough. And it made people grit their teeth and it was something they went through together and were willing to power through for one another and. Basically they had to be willing to. Or it wouldn't work. And I may not be the most powerful member of this family by any stretch of the imagination but I'm not _fucking_ letting go. I'm not gonna let that slip from me. I don't care if I have a headache for a year after, I'm holding on, Sam. I will do this for you- for us, Sam. We can talk about what happens if it doesn't work for us. But. Maybe this is a positive-attitude thing and I should go into this trusting us. It's way too easy for me to be like, 'okay, I'm weak and broken and this will never work.' But it's hard for me to look at where I am now and think there's zero possibility. I know your head and I intend to use that information to make this happen for us. No one should be able to-. Sam. I have to do this. I have to protect you. I don't want to talk about options. I don't."

Sam grabs his hand and he clutches it tight. "The spell is gonna hit you back first. That might be what happens. You might have a headache for a year. You might look at me with every pulse of it and hate me for what we did."

"That's not gonna happen. That's not gonna happen, I don't buy it. The spell may smack back, but I can fucking take it. Sam, if it means I get to _marry you_ , bring it the fuck on."

Sam just lays there and breathes in his arms for a while.

He can have this. They just say 'yes' to all of this and agree to deal with whatever repercussions there are and they can just. They can just have this. Sam can have him. He can look through that window or whatever and see over to Chuck. Maybe feel his anxieties before they hit or keep him safe from his memories. And, more tempting than that? He can know, for fucking sure, that his head and his soul are safe from invasion. No one will ever take a joyride in him again. He knows how completely he can trust Chuck. He knows Chuck would never say 'yes' for him if he said 'no.'

Pretty much every day he is _staggered_ at the realization that someone would honor that choice for him - wants to second it, in fact.

He knows he's hot and heavy and their coffee is cooled to a good temperature by now. But he doesn't want to move. He wants Chuck to hold him.

Wants Chuck to be sure with him.

"Do I have to send Charlie my final 'yes' or something?" Chuck finally prompts.

"Yeah. You do. We both do."

"So are you ready for whatever this is, Sam?" he checks.

"Yeah. You?"

"Totally."

"Okay. We're ready then. Marry me, Sammy?"

Sam smiles against his chest and digs his phone from his pocket. Chuck shifts a little so he can do the same.

 **We are both completely on-board** , Sam types and shows it to him.

 **We are cool with everything** , Chuck types and switches phones with him.

They hit send.

«»

Dean and Sam are the stragglers, working on the case in Krissy's room while the kids and Charlie are out chasing leads.

Chuck wanders over. He doesn't enter, though. He stands in the doorway and looks miserable.

Sam spots him. "Hey," he immediately recognizes that face. Turns to his brother. "You good here for now?"

Dean looks up from the text he's sending. "Yeah. I'm gonna head out in a bit. Keep your phone on."

"Hey," Sam repeats, low, as he meets Chuck at the door. "You okay?" Chuck shakes his head. "Okay. Come on. Tell me?" he requests before ushering Chuck back towards their room.

Chuck stays silent until he's got the door locked.

"Chuck?" Sam turns to him, more concerned.

He straightens up, lets the tired look kind of slip away. "I was acting like I felt like shit so Dean wouldn't actually call you. I need you for something and I don't wanna get interrupted."

"Huh," Sam considers him. "Okay."

Then Chuck just jumps him.

He yanks Sam down to kiss until he gets into it and turns to press Chuck against the door and work his mouth down Chuck's throat.

Chuck hooks a leg up around Sam's and moans. "Hi. I need you to fuck me," he says when Sam's against his collar, pushing his shirt away to taste skin.

Sam mouths back up his neck and to his ear and kisses at it. "Oh, god," he realizes on a breath. "You _need_ me."

"Yeah. Need you to take care of my body right now."

That makes Sam lift him and walk him over, dump him on the bed and whip his own shirts off. He leans down to grind against him and kiss him fucking senseless.

"Way horny," Chuck gasps when his mouth is good and plundered and Sam has wandered from it again. "Want your mouth on me. Kiss me. Fucking bite me. Suck me. Fuck me. Get totally blurry on it, I don't even care. Whatever feels good."

"Touch me," Sam demands. "You worried me coming over looking like that. You're gonna do exactly what I tell you. Touch me," he repeats before mashing their mouths together again.

Chuck skids his hands down Sam's naked front. He runs two fingers across a nipple before snagging it and pressing at his chest. Sam gasps into his mouth and finally climbs over him on the bed to settle in. To bring Chuck's hips up to meet his. To lean over him and block out the world.

Chuck shudders. "I want you to own me," he moans. "I want you to take me so hard and do exactly what's best for me. Tell me," he requests.

He doesn't say 'Oxford' but he doesn't need to. The message is clear enough. "Get out of your jeans," Sam kisses him solid one more time before sitting back on his feet. "Get yourself ready for me," he moves off the bed and kisses Chuck's upraised knees before turning to the bathroom for their kit.

Chuck tosses his clothes off - far across the room - and starts stroking himself. Sam comes back to the end of the bed to strip in front of him and he moans watching Chuck start to open himself.

He strokes himself a few times before getting back on the bed and pushing Chuck's knees back, pulling Chuck's hand out of the way. He grabs the lube up from where he tossed it and works him open, himself, one hand on his belly, the other pressing to get inside him.

Chuck lays back and closes his eyes.

When Sam withdraws he tries to close his legs around him, but Sam moves back and grabs Chuck's hands. He opens his eyes and moves to sit when Sam draws him up.

Sam sits Chuck on his lap, holds him up and in place to pump up into him. He hangs on to Sam's shoulders and lets his head fall back. Lets himself get handled. When Sam lifts him to sit him on the dresser opposite, he draws Chuck's legs high around himself. "You need to kiss me."

He lifts his head on his liquid spine and Sam laughs because his aim is off the first time.

Sam fucks him so the dresser rattles against the wall. Then slams, his thighs hitting the drawers. Chuck's moaning isn't loud enough for Sam to hear over the noise so he has to move him back to the bed.

He bends Chuck over the side of it and angles his ass up. This doesn't work long since Chuck's knees kind of... fail him after a while.

"Oh, sweetheart," Sam sympathizes, draws him back up onto the mattress and rubs the backs of his legs, his ass, all his body trembling from coming so close, from it being so good.

"I love you," Chuck whimpers, "please love me."

"Oh god, oh Chuck, that's what I'm doing," he kisses down his back, unfolds him out over the sheets, and slips in again.

Holy fuck. This is exactly what he didn't know he needed. He has to make it so good for Chuck. Can't forget to kiss across his skin.

His hand flails down to grab Sam's off his hip, brings it to his cock.

"No, no. Not yet. It's okay. I've got you. You want me to own you right now, right? I need to put marks on you. Then I need to take care of you. 'Kay?"

He's starting to go a little breathless, so Chuck helps; he stops pressing back and back against him, lets him slow it down and sink his teeth into him in a pattern. Puts a constellation on his lover's body.

He's slow and steady inside Chuck as he does it. Splits his attention soothing his hands over and over Chuck's skin, his legs and back, and leaving hard, wet kisses to cool in the air of the room.

"You're the most significant thing, Sam," Chuck reaches back to clutch at him wherever. "Significant other. Sammy. What else do I need? What else are you gonna give me?"

Sam loses it for a minute. Forgets his other tasks and just nails Chuck for a while, until Chuck shouts, formless and gasping.

Sam slows down again, presses his legs wide and open, and rides into Chuck with a hand on either side of his ass, smooth strokes into him over and over.

Chuck probably isn't even aware of his answering, repetitive stream of "Fuck. Fuck. Fuck."s.

Sam leans over him and presses tight and close, tugs them together to breathe into Chuck's neck at an increasing staccato and come in him, warm and lost and wordless.

Chuck relaxes under him and presses his ass snug against him.

Sam pulls his head back to the side to kiss him and reaches beneath to stroke him slow and solid. He ends it with a rapid set of jerks and a promise: "I will always own you. I'm never gonna leave you alone. All you ever have to do is look at me. I know what you need, I swear. You don't have to act different. I am so fucking yours. I know why you don't like other people touching you, now. I don't want that, either. Just you. _Just you_."

It's so intense. Chuck looks amazed as he bucks back on Sam's cock and comes so very beautifully.

He's relaxed and shapeless in the sheets. Sam kisses over all the skin he can reach and up into Chuck's hair. Brings Chuck's hand back to Sam's own neck so he has something to grip when Sam finally pulls out.

"You're okay," Sam soothes at his whine. "I know, I know. I don't wanna leave you, either."

"Oh god your sweet talk is so hot," Chuck grits out.

Sam smiles into his shoulder. "Score one for my words."

"You can score with me pretty much any time."

"What was up, anyway? It's not too often you're the one doing the jumping."

"Hey," Chuck objects, "I kissed you first."

Sam goes totally soft around him at that. Turns him over to his back and cups his head in a hand. "I know. I love you so much for that. I still don't know what switch just flipped. I only wish I had better access to your switches. I wish you'd tell me when I do something that makes you want me so bad."

Chuck considers. "This time I was just missing you. You spent most the day with Dean and you haven't tugged me around in a while. You haven't held my hand in a couple days," he winces. But it's out there.

"Sorry," Sam frowns.

"It's alright. I just come up with something different, then."

"You don't have to act sick to get my attention. I'm going to be your husband," he likes to try saying that kind of thing offhandedly without smiling like a loon and he mostly passes it off this time. "We're obviously gonna be doing a lot more than holding hands, so whoever has a problem with me prioritizing your needs - even your _wants_ \- they'll just have to deal. I don't need an excuse to be alone with you. I don't have to schedule time for sex."

"But you would like to know what makes me want to," Chuck tacks on for him.

"Yeah. Not so that I can plan it out. More so I can catch it before there's not an opportunity and I leave you feeling lonely."

"You can lose your mind kissing me, now, I know you're holding ba-"

Sam moans into his mouth as he does. "Gonna be my fucking husband," he growls in between.

Chuck just lays there lax and open for him to do anything he pleases. Chuck lets him _take_ from him for a while.

"So, I'm a little frustrated," Chuck admits when Sam slows their kisses. "I'm kind of, like, on offer to you and you don't."

He blinks.

Sam shakes his head, "I don't...?"

"I just." He shrugs. Moves to pull the covers up.

Sam cocks his head and stops him. "You just said you were on offer to me. You said I own you," he points out. "Did you want me to boss you around more? I know you. Like. Kind of like getting tossed around. Is this your way of telling me that you want me to." He shrugs. "Sort of _use you_ for a while?"

He shrugs. He nods. "Um. Oxford," he finally says. Hasn't said it since the first time they decided to use it.

Sam smiles. "Okay. Good." Sam perks further. "So if I said." He stops. "How about this: I'll have to go soon and catch up with the hunt, but I want you to stay naked. I just want you in our bed and ready for me to touch you. And you-- I'll bring back coffee and food for you." Sam is sweeping his fingers over his thigh and holding himself above Chuck on one arm, covering Chuck up himself but not allowing him to drag up the sheets.

Chuck returns his light caress, curling a chunk of hair over and over the edge of Sam's ear. Chuck almost seems to be biting his tongue.

"Okay. Maybe talk to me about it," Sam says quietly. "You're not telling me something."

He sighs. "I don't want to wait for you. I want to stick around you."

"Oh," Sam settles closer, brings his other hand up to lean on both arms above Chuck. "The. The hand-holding," he nods. "You can come out in the field with me, but you stay with me. No splitting up. And. If we're doing this the Oxford way, you have to hang on to me somehow when we can't hold hands. I need to keep track of you."

Chuck nods. "Okay."

"Treat it like the grocery store. I don't care if they talk shit or if Aiden laughs at you. As far as I'm concerned," he shrugs, "he's replaceable. You're not. Got it?"

"Kiss me again," Chuck breathes, looping his arms over him.

Sam does, slow and curious. "I feel like you're not saying everything," he says after a while.

"I don't think. I don't think now is the time for me to. I donno. Draw attention to my insecurities. You might decide I'm too high-maintenance."

"If I'm considered one of the things that's insecure about us, then I kinda need to know about it."

Chuck hesitates more. If this is about him wanting to feel owned, Sam can keep him close and pressed-in and plead for him to let him take care of it, no matter what it is. He's feeling very needed. This is really good. He needs to know exactly what Chuck really requires to work through whatever he's feeling.

"It. Kinda feels like you still. Like you're still more interested in hunting. Than. Than me," he whispers, shrugs. "And I know, okay? That this is the work of a lifetime for you. And I'm not gonna be the one to rip it out of your hands. I just really, really want you to move on to the next phase of it. The academics and. I just want you to be safer. The world would fall apart without you. I would be. Shit. I would be. I wouldn't want to see any more of this planet without you. I want to start carving out your next space with you."

Sam squeezes him in. Rolls back and takes Chuck with him.

"I don't want you to retire. But you really seemed like you wanted to build the house so I'm just, like. Reminding you that it's there. Our house is waiting for us. Your future is kinda waiting for you to meet it. As awful and cliché as that sounds."

Sam automatically shakes his head. "No. It doesn't. It sounds like you're reminding me that my life doesn't revolve around this anymore. And that's true. It doesn't. So there's no excuse for me. No reason why I can't be around you more. I should have known you were at the point you needed to be touched. If I were around you, I would have seen it in an instant. You shouldn't have to come fake a headache in front of Dean to get me to yourself." He takes a big breath and Chuck rises and falls with it against his side. "I'm sorry."

"No, don't apologize. Just. Yeah, just take me with you tonight."

Sam nods, certain. Then squirms a little. "You've gotta be uncomfortable, I made a mess of you. Let's wash off. Let's shower and skip out and go get coffee and show up to the hunt ten minutes late with Starbucks."

Chuck huffs a laugh against him. "Okay." He runs a hand down Sam's side some more, first. "I'm not here to boss you around," he starts picking up the subject again.

But Sam nods and picks up his hand. "Yeah. I'm bossing you around right now, remember?"

"Ah. Um. Right. So do you want me to-"

Sam starts moving out from under him and keeps him turned onto his stomach. "I want you to stay right there." Chuck watches over his shoulder as Sam bends behind him. "I'm gonna start cleaning you up now. You're gonna move wherever I put you." He's still kind of clawing for sex. For them and their messy grind and the way Chuck just wanted to be powered through. Sam spreads Chuck open and starts tonguing the come back out of him.

They're way more than ten minutes late to the meet-up. (Chuck doesn't have to worry about his instructions. Sam hangs off of him practically the whole time.)

«»

Chuck finally comments on it after nine days. To be fair, Sam hasn't freed up his mouth for that long, so he may have noticed earlier.

"We've been," he pants and turns his head so Sam has access to his throat. "We've been fucking like it's our job for like. Over a week."

So, yeah. Sam has been backing Chuck into their bedroom at least twice a day, if not more often. Ever since the last case, he's been pushing for frequent sex.

Basically, if Chuck can get it up, they're naked.  
(And he's been getting a lot more practice at multiple-session days, so he gets it up a lot more often than he expects - Sam has to admit he congratulates himself on this progress.)

As for Sam, he's generally ready to go at a moment's notice. He's, you know, pretty fit. And it doesn't take much to get him horny. So, yes. He's been initiating this a lot more often, lately.

"It _is_ my job," he says. But, as he does whenever Chuck hesitates, he asks: "Are you too tired right now? We can wait."

"You're only gonna wait an hour, aren't you?"

"I'll probably check in till you're ready, yeah," he kisses Chuck's ear because it's there and starts to back off. Or tries to. Kisses again. Then down his neck. Then they're making out again, sweet and closed-eyed and dizzying.

He feels Chuck's hands skid up his arms and under his sleeves and squeeze. Not like he's pushing him away but like a reminder or-- just, yeah. Yeah, okay.

He backs off again.

Chuck moans and moves his hands to the back of Sam's neck. Draws him down and.

Okay.

Making out again.

His hands skid down to Sam's jeans and start to open them.

"Shit," he says against Chuck's lips. "You sure?"

Chuck pulls Sam's hand out of the sheets to press it to his own jeans.  
Proves that, yes, he's very sure.

"I think I mighta got hard just because you are, but you were willing to let it go, anyway?" Chuck's voice is strained. "How fucked-up is that? I just get hot thinking about how you think I'm hot."

Psychic connection ahoy.

If it's possible for something that simple to turn Chuck on, they're gonna go buck-fucking-wild if those heady curls of _lust_ Sam feels are able to leak across the bind.

And Sam only gets harder thinking about Chuck _thinking about them_. About his brains putting words - his wonderful fucking _words_ \- to images of them and about how, someday soon, he might get to _see them_ in Chuck's mind and--

It's not a particularly long or exhausting session.  
He has to let Chuck keep _some_ energy for later in the day.

Afterwards, Chuck brings it up again. "It's nice. I just don't want it to be some secretly-desperate, frantic thing that evolved from doom-and-gloom thoughts about possible apocalypses."

"I'm not kidding," Sam shakes his head, brushes his hair behind his ears, and pulls Chuck to lay on top of him. "It really is my job. I'm supposed to give you way more orgasms than I have been."

"Well I can't complain about that, but it's not like you were neglecting me. I'm fine."

Sam's fingers rub small circles into his back. He concentrates on certain areas. "You're really not. I wanna see if I give you more orgasms, if it makes you less stressed out and your muscles ease up. It is better, by the way. It's worked a little, so far. Right here," he digs his fingers in, small motions, right at his sides. "You feel better right here. So I'm just doing my job. This is like a serious mission for me. I'm not great at massages and I know those kinda weird you out, anyway, so I'm gonna flood your head with good-sex chemicals and eventually it will overwhelm the bad-stress chemicals."

Chuck considers this. "You think that's really how it works?"

"That's my deal. And I get orgasms, too. This is the best job I've ever had."

"Huh."

"Sex really is good for your body. And the chemicals from love and lust and sexual activity and stuff - that's all supposed to do good things for you. Do you. Um. You want me to back off? I know it's exhausting you a little. But you haven't been drifting in your memories, either, and we've been talking a lot about hunting stuff, lately. Memory stuff. I've been worried, but you seem steady."

Chuck squints, looking away, thinking. "Just out of curiosity, are you keeping charts of all this shit?"

"In my head, yeah, pretty much."

Chuck looks up at him and blinks. He was being sarcastic. Sam isn't. "What else?"

"It's been helping me secretly reduce your caffeine intake," he admits. "If we have sex after breakfast, you fall asleep mid-morning, wake up for lunch, write for a while, have sex with me again, and then nap, you sleep like an hour more per day and you don't tend to have coffee past 3 pm."

Chuck laughs at him. "Okay. What else?"

"When we have sex a lot, you're getting exercise. It's not like running a mile or anything. But it's still exercise. So I can worry less that you spend so much time sitting and writing." He shifts the sheets around and pulls Chuck to drape across himself more comfortably. Because he's also getting used to the tenseness in Chuck's body when he's feeling a certain way. He can tell when he's verging on uncomfortable where they lay and he can adjust around him. Just like it's supposed to have been ever since they decided that he sleeps in the middle of the bed and Sam digs in _around him_. Finally, Sam feels like he's getting the hang of all the subtleties.

Chuck lets himself be moved which is a sign of trust. Also an unspoken benefit of extended them-time.

"In the most basic sense," Sam continues, "it helps us bond. So when I talk to you, you come closer and lower your voice and more of your meaning is _implied_ because you know I'm more familiar with you. Thankfully it doesn't mean you talk any less. In fact, you figure out that things are bugging me before I do a lot more often. You're getting an easier read of stress on me like I am on you. And, personally, I have fewer bad dreams when we have a lot of sex. For one thing, I get exhausted, too, and then my brain can't really dredge up the energy to fight me. The point is: it's healthy for me, too." He pulls the covers up to their middle and settles his arms around Chuck's shoulders. "I get more used to your weight the more you let me toss you around and the more you ride on my lap. So it makes it easier to pick you up. And sometimes when you grab my neck really hard it feels seriously good. I've had trouble cracking it for a couple years, now, and you're working on it a little at a time. When I pull out of you real slow you hang on there and it's one of your strongest grips. You know. Besides your ass. You have a really tight ass, it's fucking amazing," he kisses Chuck's face.

Chuck looks kind of... speechless. For a good long moment. "If I ever doubted I hooked up with a genius, my sex life is now empirical evidence to the contrary. You just made a scientific study of our fucking habits, on your own, and determined how an increase of activity on a fairly regular schedule would boost our physical and emotional health and why. Like. Did you submit this to a peer-reviewed journal yet? I'm your writer, how did this not cross my desk for edits?"

"Thanks, smartass."

"I wasn't being a smartass." He thinks about it. "Apparently I'm just being a tightass."

"Not in the bad sense!" Sam enthuses. "Speaking of which," he draws his fingers over and over, feeling Chuck's ribs. "I've been meaning to ask you something." Sam waits for his undivided attention. "We share duties on pretty much everything between us. I was just wondering if there's a reason you haven't asked if you can fuck me yet."

"Well. Yeah. For one, I kind of. Um. I already know the answer. That's not the main reason. But I know how you feel about it, Sam."

It's on his tongue, it really is. A challenge.

But this is Chuck. This is someone who's seen through his eyes. And his problems didn't start and stop right there at the end of Chuck's tenure writing prophecy, right at the end of the failed apocalypse.

Others had been trying to use him before then.

Meg had succeeded.

Chuck returns some of his gentle touches. "What I mean is." He pauses and bites his lip. "What I mean is. You didn't just ask me -- just now? If that was something I wanted to do. You didn't ask me if I _could_ be inside you. You asked why I haven't asked. And even the _way_ you ask means something, Sam. I know that this was a problem for you since-- I know it was a problem before you even said The Big Yes. Okay? And if you'd changed your opinion on that in the past few years, I have a feeling you would have brought it up before now. And not in a tentative way like that. Almost like you're asking me if you have to offer it before I get bored. I have a really." He blows out a breath. "I have a really awful feeling that I saw at least a preview of what was in store for you in. I just. With Michael and- you--" He stops.

Sam has to breathe, too.

"I have a feeling that the sense of yourself. And your borders. And the things you're willing to do with yourself. I think that might have." He stops. "I'm like. I'm gonna get really angry and sad and fucking furious thinking about this. But I think it might have gotten worse since then. Between hell and Gadreel and I don't know what else. I just. Can't really stand the thought of it and. I donno. You might come to think that it's not _the same thing_. Someone being inside you and _someone being inside you?_ But even if you get to that point. I'm gonna need you to think hard on it all over again. Just to be sure."

He hadn't intended for this conversation to get so intense. He doesn't even know why he chose to bring it up now. The absolute clarity Chuck has on the subject almost stings.

It also reminds him that he couldn't have fucking chosen better if he tried.

God.  
Chuck really gives a shit.

He doesn't just give a shit: Sam's concerns are _his_ concerns.

This is like. Actual partnership.  
(Shit. This is like _marriage_.)

He palms Chuck's face and they stare dead-on for a minute.

"I won't, by the way," he insists. "I won't get bored. Mostly I'm your. Well. I'm greedy. I like your spectacular cock in my tight ass."

Sam blows out a breath. Clears his throat. "'Needy bottom,'" he quotes.

Chuck presses his smile against his chest. Looks up again, smirking. "Yeah. Guilty." He nods and loses the smile entirely. "But I don't. That's. That's not something I _need?_ If it's ever what you're really hot for at any given moment, you can reconsider it then. But I'm honestly not gonna ask only to get half-way through it and watch you go through some horrific self-discovery of a feeling you didn't know you weren't okay with. If you ever ask for it, that's when we'll really discuss it, Sam. It's not my secret desire or anything. Really, you've gotten to the point where you basically let me fuck your mouth with complete abandon. We're really inventive. We've done almost everything I want to in the kitchen so far."

He shakes his head. "What is _with you_ in the kitchen??"

"Just admit that we've done really good work in kitchens," Chuck shakes his head. "Admit it."

They consider each other a little while. Chuck shifts on top of him, sits up, and he feels the intimate press of Chuck's ass on his lap when they're still naked but just not doing anything.

He puts the flats of his hands to Sam's torso and sweeps them _up_. Sam's hands wander between Chuck's knees and thighs.

"Wish I could draw," Chuck comments. Then moves his hands to his shoulders. "Aaaarms. Geeze, Sam. Arms."

Sam laughs light and soft and happy.

Chuck comes down to press his nose to Sam's neck and it's nice. He settles on top.

Sam helps. He brings his arms up and holds him again. Moves him to the side so he can sleep if he wants. "This is what I was talking about," he comments.

"Hm?"

"We get more used to each other. It's like a crash-course in _us_. I think it's important. I think you need to know that I love all your parts and you make me hot. Make me hard. And I need you to be comfortable in my space. I mean, in your own way, mentally? You're kind of used to me. But I want you to be ready to have me sticking to you. You need to start giving me all that stuff you said I could take from you. You have to be better about sharing your stress and your day and your thoughts and your brain. Because you still keep really quiet sometimes and I am just. Really really."

"Not quiet."

"Not at all quiet," he agrees. "So it's bonding. Sort of. And. You getting used to having me looming in your space." He moves his arms, flexing a little before tightening around Chuck. "Frankly, I'm already used to you by my side. I forget you're not a little taller. I'm so used to being next to you in bed, sometimes I look down at you when we're standing around and it's kinda funny. But I like this. I like coming equal to you. Like living in water. Like floating in space. Where I don't tower over you the whole time."

"You need to get used to the idea that I like that, though. I mean. It's all great. But you have to remember that I like that you're huge. Just be happy about that with me. I'm gonna watch YouTube videos and learn to draw so I can show you how amazing it is. You don't seem to believe my words all that much. It's like you don't trust my writing."

Oh hell no. "No. No, I trust your writing, I promise," he pets Chuck's back.

"Well, you could act like it. Trust your own plan: bond with me." Chuck worms out of Sam's hold and scoots down the bed until his feet are even with Sam's feet and he cuddles into Sam's front instead of his neck. "You'll still be a perfectly good husband from up there, I promise."

Goddamn. He totally does that on purpose. Sam gets, like, thrills up his sides and through his arms and up to his spine and brain when Chuck tosses the word out so casually.

"Little harder to get down there and make out with you when you say stuff like that, though," Sam handles his head up to look down at him. "The woman's account in the binding book? She never went through it. She married outside her village and she never went through the ceremony. She could only describe what she thought it was like and describe what people were like after it."

Chuck nods. "Yeah." They've been over this.

"Well, I think that we have to know how we think. We have to prepare in our own way since we don't really know what it will be. Sort of be prepared by being _bonded_ before we're _bound_ in the ceremony. And. You know _a lot_ about my brain. I'm worried I don't know yours enough for it to work. So. I'm kind of trying to work on that."

"By fucking _my_ brains out on a regular basis? And duping me out of coffee?"

Sam deflates a little. "No. Yeah. I mean. Kind of. But you make it sound-- like I'm just... fucking off or something," he shrugs. "Will you please get back up here? Or-" he pushes a pillow down to him, "you're gonna mess up your neck."

Chuck moves back up to the top of the bed with the pillow and lays back like normal. Brings the sheets up, too, and hands them to Sam to properly tuck them in together.

"So." Chuck thinks a minute, works it out. "You're trying to get me to open up so you have more insight into my head. Because I have a really unfair amount of insight into yours. So you're worried we're not comfortable or equal enough for the ceremony to work?"

Sam sighs. "Thank you." He motions vaguely. "Words."

"Okay. So. You were doing this physically because that's what you do. The physical."

"And you talk when we're close like this. I know I can ask you anything and you'll tell me. I just don't know what to ask. I don't know what your mind looks like to even start. I-- well. You said something about a hallway, once. But I didn't want you to go down it just in case it was-- you weren't _all there_ when you said it. And I was worried one of the doors had opened."

"Oh." Chuck settles back and crosses his arms over the covers. "I said that, huh?"

He sighs and settles on his side and reaches over to touch like an apology.

"It's fine. It's okay. Yeah. It's kind of like." Chuck takes a steadying breath. "Well. I don't really have the patience for psychology and all that. But I read a tutorial on the internet about mind palaces once and. All I could really get is this hallway. You're supposed to base a mind palace on a place you know in real life where you might feel comfortable."

"So. A hallway?"

"Well, that's just the thing," he shrugs. "I never really felt comfortable, like. Anywhere? We lived in two different houses growing up. The second was just a couple blocks over from the first. And it was just bigger so my parents could make it more crowded, you know??" His eyes get wide. "I never lived in a house I was comfortable in. I lived in dingy places. Even though I was alone and it was quiet, it wasn't like that ever made it _paradise_. I was just. You know. Getting by."

"So where's the hallway from? A place you visited?"

"It's the media hallway at this high school. Not the one I went to. But. Anna took extra art classes during the summer and after school. And they held them at this other high school. And she would always need a ride and I'd be it-"

"Anna?" Sam has to repeat.

"Yeah. I mean. My younger-- I mean, the third sister. Jenna first-"

"Betty," he nods. "Then. Austin? And. Then Anna. And." He's trying to dig for the name. "I wanna say. Leah?"

"Trish. Leah was one of my aunts. Anna's younger than me. Trish, too."

"So. Anna took art classes. You took her there?"

"Yeah. And. Well, sometimes I would have fucking homework that I'd actually have to fucking do," he rolls his eyes. "And they kept the door opened when they were painting. When they were doing anything, really. And by that time, most the rest of the school was shut down and quiet. And there were just, you know. Art noises. Sinks and questions and tapping and then just. Work. People working on stuff they liked to do. People making art. And it was nice. It turned out to be a place I could concentrate, just sitting on the floor in the media hall. So. I guess it's just a nice, quiet hall with art happening somewhere. It's calming, I guess. Not really a nice place. Not really a palace. And I've never been able to make the hall lead anywhere. But there are doors. Lots of doors."

"And you can put things behind the doors. Like memories you don't wanna look at."

"Sometimes big hunks of memory or just one memory or sometimes it's a whole person. Being. Person. Whatever."

Sam thinks about this. Thinks about the dozens of high schools he attended and tries to envision a hallway after classes have let out. That's not so hard.

The art-noises are harder. He knows art noises. Jess made art noises all over their apartment.

And he guesses they were comforting? At the time.

Well. Chuck makes art, now. But he's quiet and typing. He doesn't listen to music when he writes, he tends to focus on one thing. Sometimes he'll read a sentence out loud until it stops sounding like English altogether because he's puzzling something out.

But there's a steady quiet to it. And an air of satisfaction and focus.

He can see why that would be good for studying. He studied a lot while Jess--

He pictures blue schoolroom doors. The kind with little windows. Lockers down each side.

But an infinite hall. Just leading to dark ends, not anything else.

"Doors open?" he asks.

"Yeah," Chuck says, quiet. "Sometimes I open them to look for something. Sometimes I forget to check that things are closed. It's like. I guess it's like when you-- well. Maybe you have to have serious anxiety to understand this feeling. I'm pretty familiar with it," he says, chagrined. "The best way I can describe it is where you'll remember this dumb fucking thing you did. Like. Say you ripped your pants in front of a whole classroom. The memory will pop up every once in a while for no reason. Just like, 'hey, remember that dumbass thing you did once?' And you feel awful about it and it happened ten years ago but it's making you awkward _today_ and self-conscious about what you're wearing and just miserable. So it will pop at you out of nowhere and you'll kind of shake your fist at yourself and call yourself an idiot a hundred times and like smack your own face once or twice-- and you've just got to get over it. Well. This hallway is a lot more like there are lots of those memories that could creep out under the crack of the door at any time. Only they're horrifying in a different way because. Well. What I've seen, not just things that happened to me. But to keep them from all flooding out at once, I should go around and just _press_ the door every once in a while. I press the Dean door. I press the hell door. I press the Michael door. I press the wendigo door. I press the Lucifer door. I press the Delaware door. I just. Remember that they're all there and acknowledge them for what they are and decide that they're not gonna pop out at me while I'm microwaving a Hot Pocket or driving or adjusting the temperature in the shower."

Oh.  
Buddy.

"Um. That sounds. Like a lot of work."

"Yeah. Well. Yeah. But I can do it before I go to sleep or something. Or as I'm waking up."

"Like. You're talking about all the zillions of heads you saw through. And all of them have _doors?_ "

"Well. Not all. But most, yeah."

Sam just boggles over this. "So. Say you forget to press on a door?"

"I mean, they don't require constant maintenance. But if I saw something on the news two days ago that I also happen to think about while I'm microwaving the Hot Pocket because the news report was about waterboarding and the Hot Pocket is oozing cheese, like: _bam_. Suddenly I'm looking out over writhing, infected, puss-and-boil bodies with chains strung through them in The Pit."

"Because you haven't touched the hell door recently??"

Chuck offers a hand, like, _there you go_. "The problem is, I used to see this shit and just wade through it until I got drunk enough to either fall asleep or come up out of the place for air. But now you're here and-- not that I'm complaining! It's just. The tail end is easier to deal with. When it was just me, on my own and going vacant, it didn't bother anybody."

Okay. Okay, he's done for now. "How the hell you didn't just walk out into traffic or poison yourself or walk off a bridge is completely beyond me. Holy. Fucking. Shit. I should have been there to check on you before. What the _fuck_." He reaches up to cover Chuck's ears and they're quiet for a while. On top of everything this isn't just about prophecy crowding up Chuck's head – this is PTSD and stress and anxiety and raw, abused nerves.

Sam just has to breathe.

"I wanna hear more. I do. But holy fuck. Now I really need to make sure I do my job extra hard. I wasn't there for you for so long. That's not acceptable, Chuck. That no one was there to help you through it."

"You didn't know," he shrugs it off.

 _Zachariah_. He thinks of the drowned-out memories that fell from Chuck's head when he lost himself back at the bunker. "Should'a been there," he moves in to kiss Chuck and curl his arms around his head.

"I'm sorry we missed each other," Chuck whispers after a while. "Wish I'd had the guts to say something. I was pretty fucked up. I was wading elbow-deep in it every day. I didn't know. I just. Didn't know."

Yeah. He wishes they could have their years back, even if it wasn't like this.

Maybe Sam will have access to what he missed. Maybe the information will flow freely. He won't need to reach to remember the names of the people in Chuck's family. He'll know what Chuck needs before he will. He'll see a memory in a doorway and be able to shut it for him before it creeps up on his six.

That's what Sam wants. He wants the bind to give him passage into Chuck's everyday operations. He needs to be less alone in his burdens.

But what will it really be?  
What will it really be?

«»

He's doing it again. "Okay," Sam says, "that's pretty much all I can handle." He refuses to quietly seethe at Chuck. That's not how they do things. He's fed up but he's not gonna let himself be flat-out angry.

"Hmm?" Chuck says, looking up from the police report he's reading.

Sam stands up from the kitchenette table and plucks at Chuck's shirt sleeve. "C'mon."

Chuck frowns, takes his glasses off, follows.

He hovers in the doorway of the bathroom while Sam digs through their stuff. Sam pulls the trimmer out and considers. Then pulls other tools out, as well. The whole range of things he bought.

He pulls Chuck over and handles him into place against the counter, cages him in with his legs. "Um. Okay."

"You're, like. Picking. Picking at your beard. When it gets too long and you don't do anything about it, you start twisting pieces in your fingers when you're thinking and it fucking weirds me out."

"Oh. I didn't know that." He looks shocked. "I'll stop."

Sam shakes his head and just goes for it. "Whatever about that, just, chin up. Lean back."

Sam starts by wetting a towel and cleaning his face off and then he gets a brush and a comb. He's never done this for himself, so he does it just like he learned.

"I was reading up on the case and you've been on fucking YouTube for the past hour looking up how to trim my beard??" Chuck guesses.

"No. I've been on the DOJ website for the past hour trying to find our guy. I looked this up at the beginning of the week and I went and got this stuff," Sam squints and comes in close and gets the brush and trimmer aligned just right and brushes hair off Chuck's shirt. "Because you let this go for a week or so before it starts driving you crazy, but it gets on my nerves." He shrugs. "Instantly. Just right away. It's one thing you do that I actually find pretty gross," he admits. "The beard twisting thing."

"Oh god." Sam shuts him up by moving his jaw up with one wide hand. "I didn't know that," Chuck tries to continue. "You didn't say an-"

"Stop, I'm trying to-"

He lets Sam do his thing for a while, which is good. He concentrates on getting everything even. Not snipping too close or thinking about it too much. Can't let his hands falter. Can't hurt him.

"I'm sorry," Chuck finally says between snips.

"It's fine. I just. I'm not used to complaining about stuff unless there's something I can do about it first. So. I'm solving my own problem and now you know. If it really annoys you to take the time out to do it, I'll do it," he offers. "Because it's. Yuck." And this isn't so hard. He's already got the hang of it. It's easier than shaving his own face, obviously. An easier perspective from outside.

"Fuck. You didn't tell me I was being gross! I didn't want to be gross in front of you!" earnest and worried, now, and for no reason. It's not like Chuck _refuses_ to do it overall. He's just lazy sometimes. Everybody gets that way about some things.

"You lived on your own for a long time, mountain man."

"Fucking mountain man. I'm a fucking mof-" Sam moves his face around again because he's on a roll.

Chuck looks like he's agonizing about it the whole time Sam's working on him. But it's not a big deal. It's hardly a punishment to hold and handle and take care of his significant other. It's a little ridiculous that he thought he could just step in and do it himself, but who the fuck is like, 'hey, can you shave today?'

And is he gonna pass up an opportunity to learn Chuck's skin? To practice taking care of him? Hell no.

"Am I really gross?" Chuck asks at the end, rubbing his neck, below his jaw.

"You're not gross," Sam insists. "It's just the one thing."

"Should I. Should I just shave it all off?"

Sam considers it only briefly. "It's just the one thing," he repeats. "I don't know how I'd feel about you suddenly having a naked face, it's hard to picture. Anyway, that's not something you do for me. That's something to do if you _want_ to do it. This? I know you're gonna do it anyway, but in like five more days. I couldn't wait that long." He starts cleaning things and putting them away.

Chuck turns to look in the mirror. He touches Sam's arm. "God. Are you really gonna take care of my face, too? You make sure I eat and you drag me off to sleep when I can't stand up anymore and you watch out for my brain and now this? I feel like the only responsible thing really is to just shave it off. I make you do way too much for me."

Sam shakes his head and drips an oil into his palms, motions Chuck back around, then rubs it around Chuck's face. "You're not making me do anything." He ends it by kissing Chuck full on the lips, tight against him, cradling his head. "I wanted to know what it would be like. And now I know I can do it. So I can, any time you need me to."

"Because you studied," Chuck shakes his head. "Because you study how to take care of me and then you practice and then you just do it."

"Because this is my full-time job," Sam nods. Yeah, so. He wanted this. He really did. He wanted Chuck to be breathless and pleased and share bathroom space with him. Little, intimate everyday things.

Chuck just tries to breathe steady for a while. "You don't get paid enough."

"I get paid more than I'm worth."

"The grossest thing _you_ ever do is say shit like that to me. I adore you and you slag off my fucking favorite person. How fucking dare you."

Sam closes his eyes and kisses into Chuck's mouth. How the fuck does he explain what this means to him?

"There's this person," Sam says, when he pulls back. "He thinks he's my official cheerleader," he opens his eyes. "He listens to every fool thing that falls out of my mouth and he makes it make sense. He's been doing this since before I knew him. What I see as faults in myself, he sees as some kind of twisted _glory_. Some kind of glowing righteousness. I'm too big to fit in regular human spaces and it trips him out. He thinks it's wonderful. He talks to me when he's too tired to keep his eyes open because he knows I can't sleep without hearing him. Without feeling him. Without knowing he's there. I'm clingy. I'm oppressively hot. I'm overprotective and everything about me is invasive. I know too much, I'm a know-it-all. I think I'm smart and that I know what's best, but I don't really, unless he ropes me in and stands at my side and reminds me that everything makes more sense when it's two of us making the decisions. Not just me. Not just me running off on my own trying to define what the fuck normal is and why I should live my life that way. He knows every way in which I'll never be normal and he swims in this pit of weirdness with me. He doesn't let me take things on my own. I say I unleashed Satan on the world. He keeps saying that somebody was gonna do it whether or not I took part and that I closed the box on him tighter than it was before. He writes stories about me. I let him see these sugar-coated fantasies I have about love and he lets me play them out. Every time I say something that I'm sure is gonna freak him out, he rolls with it. He does one thing -- just one fucking thing -- that I find screwy, and it makes him offer to change his _face_ for me. The thing he presents to the world."

Sam presses their heads together.

"He proposed to me."

Sam presses his hand to Chuck's skin, knowing he can feel the ring there. Knowing he's still thrilled by it.

He thinks aloud. "You know how sometimes you see some new gadget you didn't even know you needed, but it's gonna make your life ten times easier? He gave me something I didn't even know I needed. It's made my insides calmer. It's made my days and nights longer. It's made my heart fuller. It's made the sun brighter. We leave the lights off in the apartment all day long until the sun goes down. We don't even really need them, then," he holds Chuck close and stares, quiet, just wanting to absorb the way they're standing here in the tiny motel bathroom together.

"You've put a lot of thought into this," Chuck finally says. "I just didn't want you to be alone anymore. I just didn't want someone to tell you that you suck without having somebody there to argue with them. I'll fight them. I'll fucking fight them."

Sam supposes that ought to be funny, the size and shape of him and how often he has Chuck pinned under him, small and helpless at his hands. How often he gets emotional and the fact that he's basically marrying into a warrior clan when he comes from the fucking suburbs. But it isn't. Sam's seen who Chuck is willing to stare down for him. Sam's seen him stand up to _Dean_ for him. It's not just that this is his partner, his equal, and worthy of respect. It's that, when it comes to Sam, there's a vein of rarely-tapped fierceness that Chuck will unleash if he feels like he has to.

"You'll fight them and win. You'll save my life. You've already done it a few times. I'm kinda committed to the idea of just handing you the whole thing because I know you'll take care of me. And you think it's some huge burden for me to shave your face?" he challenges. "Or take you home when you're tired. Or pick you up and carry you to the shower. Can't I have your life? Will you even consider handing me some of it so I can do for you what you did for me?"

Chuck grabs for his shoulders and pulls him in and hugs him tight. "God yes. You're right. I wasn't even thinking. I love it when you handle everything for me. Take however much you can deal with."

"We don't have to do this on our own, anymore," Sam insists into his hair.

"We don't have to do this on our own. No. I love you when you're being just no-holds-barred romantic. It doesn't even seem like lovey-dovey stuff at that point. It just seems like you're trying to teach me facts," Chuck says.

Sam shrugs and adjusts the hold he has around him. "That's it. That's _exactly_ what I'm trying to get you to understand. It's just facts. Thank you."

"You might have to remind me."

"I can do that," again and again. Whenever he needs it. Sam moves his hands down and hefts Chuck onto the counter. He can settle against Chuck better this way.

"We have to work on the case," he points out. "Cas is gonna call soon."

"Family always comes first. Family comes before the case. I'm working on my family right now. How does your face feel?" he checks. "I didn't nick you anywhere?"

"You did it perfectly. I never even do it that well, myself," he feels at his neck, again. "Tell me for real: do you have an opinion on my look? Should I do something different?"

"Sweetheart, that's really, really something for you to decide."

"Well, if I look gross and you're embarrassed to be seen with me, you have to tell me," he requests.

Sam sighs, "You're really handsome as far as I'm concerned. I know you don't like high-maintenance stuff. If you want to shave it all off, we can do that. But it's not necessary. I'm not ever embarrassed to walk around with you." He takes hold of Chuck's neck and soothes his thumbs across Chuck's skin. Sam can help him maintain himself but he certainly can't imagine telling him how he ought to look. It's his own choices that make Chuck who he is. That make Sam love him. "If I hear anyone talk shit about you, it will be very hard to keep my cool. It will be really fucking hard not to come right at them. I know it's only our opinions that matter, but you're hard enough on yourself. I wouldn't handle it very well. Other people speaking badly about you." He kisses Chuck. "This is the point where I break out into a rousing rendition of 'You are so beautiful to me,'" he grins.

Chuck pushes his face away, laughs. "You're brainwashed. I've completely brainwashed you. Amazing."

"I thought you were pretty to start with," Sam moves his thumbs up to Chuck's lips. "But you're beautiful after I kiss you. You're gorgeous when I'm making you come," he whispers. "You're fucking irresistible when you're thinking about me. I can tell when you're doing it," he insists, nodding. "I know when you're about to say something just incredible." He can. He knows it's coming. Chuck's focused on Sam and his fingers are fidgety where they're gripped in his shirt. Something's about to slip out of his mouth to answer Sam's own need for him.

He doesn't disappoint: "How do I look with your hickies on me?" he grabs hold of Sam's belt loops and presses tighter to him.

"You look like somebody loves you. You look like I've been doing my job right. Like I take care of you. Like my fiancé."

"You wanna mess my neck up after you made me all neat?"

Holy shit. He's actually asking for them again. "Yeah?"

"You can," he allows. "You wanna shut the door and carry me to bed?"

He blinks and considers their reflection. "I wanna watch what I do to you. Can I do it here? In front of the mirrors?"

"God yes."


	5. we would be missed if one another just did not exist

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter has to be dedicated to [femmechester](http://femmechester.tumblr.com/) / [propinquitous](http://archiveofourown.org/users/propinquitous). She has become an integral part of this landscape.
> 
> \--
> 
>  
> 
> **** Warning: for homophobic slurs ****

Nothing is making Sam less nervy.

He's not _nervous_ he's just full of nerve endings that are responding to everything with a rising in his throat and an ominous feeling coming up his arms and the back of his neck. It makes him start things, then hesitate. Forget to finish. Change his mind a lot. Then he'll realize how scatterbrained he's being and seek out Chuck to help get his thoughts back in line.

Since everything is going pretty great, this doesn't much make sense.

Just to work out the static energy within him, he resumes his pursuit of Chuck with the kind of all-day sexual tension that marked the time right before Winona. (It's very fun.)

They're hunting and it's all-hands-on-deck so the family is all crammed into the same space more often than not.

Someone needs to run the fake tip line they set up looking for witnesses and he gets downright fucking _vicious_ with Charlie, refusing to let the task of answering phones get dumped on Chuck.

Chuck's the one who _isn't_ nervy about the wedding and he wants it to stay that way. There's no faster way to stress him out than to make him talk to strangers on the phone.

Charlie backs off. Claire and Cas take turns at the phone.

Sam presses Chuck out of the room they're all packed into whenever everybody is sufficiently distracted because they keep giving each other these heated _looks_ over their plans and maps and weapons but they haven't acted on it with more than frantic kissing in like three days.

He has to pull him outside, around the corner of the motel, and grab him by the neck and kiss his lips all madly until it's biting and clutching and someone's wondering aloud where the fuck they disappeared off to _again, I fucking swear they zap off faster than Cas ever did_.

Chuck feels amazing this week. Sam was doing the constant-sex thing, like, 70% just as an excuse to fuck and 20% to study his fiancé's body and get in his head, and 10% for the actual reasons he gave.

But it seems like training Chuck's body to relax and trust him and let the stress fall away actually worked.

He fucking _smells_ amazing, too. What the fuck is up with that? Sam starts mouthing at his neck and his wrists and he even tastes better than usual. He'd notice if Chuck changed his diet or his soap or what he puts in his coffee. Is this some kind of fucking marriage magic?

He's down. He's totally down with whatever is making Chuck softer as he presses against him and sweeter on his tongue.

"What if I actually did a good job getting you ready for this?" he marvels after ten solid minutes of just drawing his fingers through Chuck's hair and over his neck and listening to this incredible, whispered diatribe as Chuck recounts every goddamn time he's felt safe in Sam's arms starting with the first time and working forward in detail.

"You did a really good job. I just hope I do the binding right. I hope you feel at home with me even more than you do now."

"Oh, no," Sam whispers, thumbs kneading into Chuck's back a little. "No, no. Don't start stressing over that right now. You're perfect for me. Every damn day I'm more convinced you're perfect for me. It'll be okay. It'll be like waking up with you in the morning-"

"Yeah, one of us won't be _present_ at the time," he interrupts, somehow griping about Sam's exercising and demeaning himself in the same sentence.

"No. You'll be there in your mind, still, and I'll be able to pull you out from behind whoever stepped in front of you. This is going to work, sweetheart, I swear," he curls over and around Chuck closer and tighter.

And they both startle when Cas clears his throat.

"Jesus fuck, dude," Chuck spits.

"Um," Cas looks a little harassed. "We have a lead worth following up on."

Sam and Chuck straighten up and Sam's about to ask-

"You're both supposed to go home," Cas says.

"Um. What?" Chuck asks.

"Charlie and Dean... and I have all agreed that you're both being unusually useless and we think you'd be more help not working on the case," he squints pointedly to where he knows Sam's hand is still pressed up under Chuck's shirt, at his back. "We all understand," he nods. "And Dean is sorely tempted to screw with both of you just to get you to start paying attention. So we'd rather you simply go home and do the rest of your preparation for the binding ceremony."

When Sam looks down at Chuck after this announcement, he does not see what he expected in his expression.

Personally, Sam's torn between yes-pleasing the fuck out of there, packing up the motel, and heading just a mile down the road to another one to fuck Chuck's brains out for the rest of the week.

And. You know. Sticking around just to dare Dean to mess with him.

To his surprise, Chuck's expression is a cross between _did-he-really-just??_ And _challenge-accepted-you-ass._

He stays staring at Sam so he doesn't give anything away when he says, "You know what, Cas, I think we'll take you up on that." Then he hauls Sam down to make out with him until Cas drifts off from whence he came.

Then Chuck presses his mouth to his ear, is almost inaudible as he says: "Keep your mind clear so Cas can't read it off you. Go in there and smuggle out as much info as possible. I'll pack the room. We'll blaze out of here and get the motel one exit back. Don't forget you left your suit coat in Claire's room; we'll need it. Then disconnect a cable in the Impala and meet me at the front office."

"Then I can fuck your brains out after we solve the case on our own, right?" Sam says quiet and presses his smile into Chuck's neck.

"You're goddamn right. Slap my ass as I walk by the room so they think-"

"I'm not gonna slap your ass."

"Then do something romantic."

"Alright. Break," he draws Chuck by the hand and kisses it before he reluctantly lets go at the doorway, watches after Chuck with a soppy, longing expression... as, out of sight and a few doors down, he fumbles with their key card and it flips out of his hands in a supremely dorky move that would have Sam laughing hysterically if he weren't concentrating on an image of him naked across their bed (which ought to keep Cas from prying further).

"Fucking finally," Dean says under his breath as he starts gathering his laptop. He takes all the files stacked under it, too. And the ones holding pages in the books he brought. And he drops something so they won't notice him taking some of the crime scene photos.

He pickpockets a flash drive from Charlie as he scoots by her to ask Claire for her room key so he can get his jacket.

And swipes Castiel's tablet as he's dragging his bag over the bed.

Claire lets him into her and Charlie's room. "Little early for a honeymoon don'tcha think?" she teases him and he plays along like a love-drunk fool while he steals another of Charlie's smartphones. It's linked so he ought to have access to everything they do.

When Claire heads back in with the others and the coast is clear, it's a simple matter of letting himself into the Impala and pulling something vital in the steering column, then putting everything back in place. Dean won't think it was him until after and he can convince him it was from a previous hotwiring. He'll never suspect, at first, that they'd take their lives in their hands by fucking with The Car. Or. Well. As long as it's not something irreplaceable, they'll at least live until the wedding.

He hands over his keycard to Chuck when he reaches the front office.

And to prevent them from changing their minds and taking Castiel's advice, he pulls off to a dirt road and climbs over and grinds against Chuck until they're both coming in Sam's hand. That maybe shouldn't have taken an hour but when compared with another six days it seems downright responsible of them.

They clean up and change in a Burger King bathroom and then head off to play reporters.

«»

"You wanna call or can I?" Chuck asks two days later and about eight steps ahead of the rest of the fam.

Sam is putting out the last of the flames by kicking dirt over the corpse.

Rougarou are incredibly flammable.

"It's all you, sweetheart," he beams, so proud of him and happy to leave the rest of the cleanup to the _Lose_ chester side of the family.

Chuck checks the GPS coordinates on Sam's phone and texts them to Dean, then hands it over and calls with his own phone, on speaker.

"... let there be moaning please don't let there be moaning please don't let there be moaning, um, hey Upchuck."

"Well, howdy Paula Dean," Chuck says in a fair imitation of a bless-your-heart country sneer. "Where are you guys?"

"Still in Williamsburg. Don't tell me the place Sam just sent me is another hunt."

"Nah. Same one. We just finished it for you."

Dean is dead silent.  
Clears his throat.  
Mutters something.  
"Uh. Come again?"

"Oh, I plan to," Chuck assures him. "Most likely while you guys bury what's left of this rougarou. We'll head home after I ravish Sam one more time and you guys can head back to the bunker and get the rest of the shit for my wedding," he closes his eyes and sits on the car hood and nods to himself.

There's faint cursing and a clatter on the other end. "A--" but Dean disappears and then his voice is far, "-- _FUCKING ROUGAROU I FUCKING TOLD YOU_." His voice comes back. "What did I say? What did I fucking say? I said, 'Cas it's probably a rougarou' and you gave me this condescending fucking--"

There's a scuffle and Charlie's voice in the background.

Then she grabs the phone. "Okay! Okay. I admit it. We deserved that."

"Good," Sam says at the phone and starts packing up the gas cans.

"We'll pull clean-up duty and we'll meet you guys in S-D on Tuesday, okay?"

"Damn right you will."

Charlie laughs, almost giddy and they hear her join in mocking Cas before she hangs up.

Chuck pockets his phone. "We smell like smoke and guts," he declares.

"We'll smell less like smoke and guts after I take your clothes off and soap you up and-"

"Get in the caaar noooow," Chuck sings.

«»

They take their time heading home. Really, they stop at a new motel every night and spend most the day screwing around and ignoring the phone. Charlie texts updates when they refuse to make any more decisions concerning the ceremony. And she lets Sam know that the tent is set up already so the majority of stuff is taken care of. Now it's just her and Dean and Cas's sense of aesthetics that needs pleasing and, you know what?

The way the ceremonial bells and whistles look won't actually make it feel any more or less like he's marrying Chuck. His nervy heart is telling him that. He has a feeling that the occasional tiny thrill of dread he's got going on is just the ever-present loom of the threat that one of them may die in the few hours left before they actually bind themselves together.

With the ritual happening tomorrow, he's got to long-haul-drive them to their usual motel in South Dakota. So he kisses Chuck awake early and makes him get dressed and eat something. Then he finds a Starbucks to prop him up in while he finally returns Dean's calls.

He does have a few ideas of stuff that needs to be tweaked for it to be perfect. It's already pretty much where it needs to be. But maybe Dean will also understand the way he can't seem to shake that little spike of fear.

Sam places their laptop bag down and starts getting the sugar and napkins and whatever-

"Um. Hey?" Chuck calls over his shoulder from the register. Grimaces and sort of waves his gold card around.

"Oh." He had to cancel auto-refill because one of the credit cards was being traced but there still should have been something like $12 left on Chuck's Starbucks card. He soothes a hand down Chuck's back when he gets up there and passes over a twenty. "Sorry, I have to break that on you first thing."

"Nah, no big deal," the barista waves him off.

Chuck throws his own couple dollars in the tip jar. "Could have sworn?"

"Yeah, me too. I'll set it back up after I make some calls."

Chuck shrugs and says something but one of the baristas starts a blender and he can't hear. He goes about getting his straw, though, and Sam turns back because maybe they have those oatmeal cups-

His phone rings. Because he was thinking about Dean _really hard_ so, naturally, Dean calls.

"Dude. When are you guys leaving the bat cave?"

He thinks he hears him start, "Gimme a fuckin' break we--" but it statics out. Cuts off.

He thumbs around trying to call and text but it's not going through and their drinks are finished before he realizes he can't even get a damn signal in here. And since when is there a Starbucks without WiFi? Thanks, Middle-America.

"Mine's gotta cool down a little, anyway," he says, placing the cups down and pressing a kiss to Chuck's head. "I'll be right outside. Dean was trying to call, but I couldn't-" he shrugs. "It just won't go through. I'll be right back."

"Yeah," Chuck shakes out his sugar packets and goes about the business of making himself less blurry.

He has to wander nearly as far as the little dentist's office across the parking lot to get a signal and.

He wandered too fucking far.

Because that's a goddamn SWAT van if he's ever seen one. Two lead cars and two in the back. Fuck. The nearest bank is across the intersection...

And that's not where they turn.

He does have a signal way the fuck out here. So he texts Dean the code.

**Snowman u got ur ears on?**

Pockets his phone.

And moves fast back around the side of the shopping plaza so he can see where the back door of the Starbucks is--

They pull right up to it.

One or two of the agents -- FBI big across their backs -- see him.

And they don't move on him. They move on the shop itself.

Thank fuck for that.

He gets out his phone and acts like a civilian. Another man in the parking lot has stopped where he stands, about to key into his truck, and is just staring at the black cars all rolling in.

He frowns and pulls out his cell phone and starts recording. So Sam holds his phone up like he's doing the same.

They wander closer with a couple other people in the parking lot. Someone comes out of the door of the daycare with a kid on her hip. Another guy props open the door of his barber shop.

Dean calls.

"Where am I headed?" he demands.

"Hold up, hold up. Could be it's not me. Give it a minute."

"You don't just _Smokey and the Bandit_ me out of nowhere, Sammy-"

"A van, four-- no. Six cars."

Dean's quiet for a moment. Says away from the phone, "Yeah, throw it in. Go get Claire. Now." He returns. "Who?"

They're pouring out of the cars by now.

"Feeb."

"Where?" he demands again.

"Starbucks. I left Chuck inside."

"Could be it's a-"

"I know, but I don't think so. Maybe somebody with their hands in the till?" Too many cars for a misdemeanor, though.

He navigates around the growing crowd trying to look like he's just nosy. Tries to stay in an area where he has a cell signal but he can still see inside.

And he sees Chuck through the front window. With a fucking gun in his face.

"Dean," he clenches his fist and breathes harsh. "Springfield. I left. I left him in there. It's him."

"Sam. Sammy, you listen to me, you stay on the fucking phone, do _not_ hang up on me. You're no good to him if you get in a shootout with six cars of agents. Do you fucking hear me??"

"Shit. _Shit_." He can't even pretend for the people around him, now, because they're shouting. Demanding something from Chuck.

And Chuck hasn't put his coffee down, yet. He must think this is a joke. He glances to the side.

Sam can't do _anything_.

"Tell me how," he demands, clenched-teeth-seething.

"We're leaving now. We're leaving in-- in two minutes. We're coming to you, you got that? We can play feds, too, we know how. We'll get him out of whatever cell they toss him in. They're just gonna-"

Everything whites out around him, Dean's words trying to be sensible, and the fucking civilians gawking and trying to hold their phones up over each other because one of the guys in SWAT gear just cracked at the back of Chuck's head, crashing him hard into the table. Their drinks go flying off the other side and they're _on him_ grabbing and hauling and cuffing and Sam doesn't know if he can fucking breathe through all this white and red anymore he can't find oxygen he can't see anything except heat-waves and fire and he wants to-

"-you FUCKING DARE hang up on me, Sam, FUCKING talk to me!!" Dean is yelling.

He sees two, two, three, two, two, one, a mix of feds and locals, The truck had eight. _Eight_. The only bullets he has are in the gun in his waistband and the spare clip on his ankle. That's not enough because more locals are rolling in and there's no fucking way he can FUCKING MURDER every. single. one. of. them. before he's got ten or twenty holes in himself. He's got nothing.

He's got nothing.

And they're taking Chuck from him.  
They're taking the only thing he has out here in the fucking wilds of the world. All the rest is stuck in Kansas telling him to calm down and not do this thing he FIERCELY wants to fucking do.

They take Chuck around the side. He can't even fucking see him. Couldn't even if he wasn't hanging on the edge of this crowd, aching to howl screaming murder and fire in every direction.

"Sam. Get back to your car."

They're taking the laptop bag. They're starting to talk to the people behind the counter. The other patrons.

"Sam, if they saw you in there-" Dean says.

He hates him. Hates him for being right. He hates pretty much everybody right now. These people with their damn cameras and everyone who's ever worn a badge and--

The table they left behind is slanted down at one side.  
From the impact of Chuck's _head_.  
There's coffee dripping to the floor off his side. Where he was sitting.

He wanders to the car completely untouched. The phone signal cuts out from whatever jammer the feds activated. No one looks at him. The car that has Chuck in it has government tags, last three digits 838.

He buzzes, shaking in their car and flexing his hands on the wheel blindly. Waiting for them to kill the lights and roll away. More than half of them stay at the scene and now somebody's asking. Somebody's wandering outside and looking around.

He has to go. But not until-

He knows when they turn the signal jammer off. The phone screams at him like Dean probably wants to. Sam finally picks the phone back up and lets Dean yell at him for a minute while he waits.

It's good. Good to get that anger thrown at him. He can take it in and breathe on it for a while as he watches.

"-- in fucking Nebraska, we were heading up already so just fucking hole up and sit tight and we're gonna haul ass. Don't you fucking dare go after them yourself, I will personally kick your ass. We do this as a family, Sam. Do you fucking hear me?? _As a family. We'll get him back_."

"Fucking swear to me," he demands. "Fucking swear to me I won't have to pick another day. Fucking swear to me I'll have him back before the morning, Dean." His voice is shattered. He tries not to listen to himself.

"I promise. I swear, I fucking promise you, Sammy. Get in your car and fucking drive away from there. You need to save yourself to save him."

Sam's hands start the car.

He tells Dean he's gonna hide.

And, instead, he follows.

«»

They're gonna end up in Chicago. He knows it by now. So it's a good thing there's a straight shot from where Dean is to where Chuck is being taken. To a federal building for holding. (If they're lucky.)

It takes hours. Hours and fucking hours to drive up there. The feds go slow, make stops, but never take Chuck out of the car. He knows Dean's booking it. He'll make the 8 hour drive in 6. Sam and the FBI are making a 3 hour drive in 5.

When it's her turn on the phone, Charlie bullies Sam into plugging in his phone so they can all take turns continuing to keep him calm.

He ends up with a raging headache from the lack of caffeine and it only reminds him that Chuck probably has one too, and so he drinks the pain instead of stopping to get a new coffee.

Charlie remotely resets and scrubs Chuck's phone and the laptops so the feds won't get anything off their stuff by the time they start digging.

And she searches for why this is happening.

Krissy hands back over the phone when she finds out. Sam is just sitting in the car staring at the building where the agents stopped. Waiting for them. Been waiting here for 40 damn minutes after all the driving.

"Woof, this is rough. Okay. Holy shit, Sam. They've been building a case on him since Oregon. His prints are everywhere. I mean, so are yours, but you're legally dead and he's got a trail of debit card transactions that take him pretty much everywhere. They're gonna match him cold on his prints. They have him on at least ten solid counts from the hunts we've all been on together. Shit. International alert. They've got him on Ottawa, too," she announces with a little bit of awe. "They actually know what they're doing on this one."

He rubs his knuckles over his head where the pain is coming from.

"Plan?" he simply demands. He hasn't been saying much as they've all been switching off talking him through it. Convincing him not to armor up and just enter the building quietly cutting throats.

He could.

He's already seen two very clear ways that he could. Described them in detail to... someone. Might have been Krissy from the stunned silence.

"Well. How about. Hold on, I'm gonna pass you to Krissy so me and Dean can deci-"

"No. You're. Not. I'm part of that discussion."

She sighs.

"Fine okay. You're on speaker."

"Sammy, we can't just go in there guns blazing. We can't just sneak in. Charlie said they like him for the dead hunter in Canada, right?"

She mumbles something in the affirmative.

Sam swallows harsh and presses his dented ear flat to his head.

"So what about that?" Dean points out. "Say the CIA. Say Interpol."

"Can we pull off those credentials?" Sam asks.

"I got a girl in Chicago. We'll pick you up and detour out to the north-"

"I'm staying here."

"Fine!" she seems exhausted with him. "Cas and Claire are in my car. Krissy? Call Claire and tell Cas to report to Sam's location. We're gonna make a run to get ID. Me and Dean will go in."

" _I'm going in_ ," snipes.

"Like hell," Krissy laughs.

"I hear that," Dean agrees. "You are a _fucking. wreck._ "

He hangs up.  
And he's about to get out of the car and head to the trunk.

Chuck left his glasses on the seatbelt.

They're not supposed to be there. Sam decided he was supposed to keep track of them when they weren't on Chuck's face.

He stops. Clenches the steering wheel.

Chuck's been too good to him. He slipped and now Chuck's all set to marry the guy who stood back and let him get fucking arrested.

For a job he shouldn't even be doing.

Chuck shouldn't have to be stuck with him.

The phone rings.

 _Why won't they let him do this??_ He let it happen, he has to fix it. They're holding his significant other someplace in that ugly, faceless building. He wants him back. Who knows what fucking asshole strangers are towering over him, screaming at him, shoving him around and cuffing him to tables.

They hit him.  
They _hurt_ him.

He knows Chuck's been hurt.

The steering wheel creaks.

Cas should go in so he can heal him.

Shit. He won't do that in front of other humans.

Fuck.

He can't think around his headache and the phone keeps ringing.

They have to let him do this. He has to get in there.

This fucking meter maid.

Fuck. She's gonna tell the feds he's been sitting out here for over a half hour. She saw him on her first pass. She hovered until he got out and fed the meter.

Shit. He starts up the car and drives up the nearest parking garage.

And alright. There's cameras in here. He had to take a ticket to get in. Everyone who walked by more than once likely took notice of him sitting out front seething.

He refuses to get rid of his headache so he can think clearly for Chuck.

Alright. Okay.  
He is, officially, fucked up about this.

He's not fixing it.  
If he could step back and look at his own behavior, he'd know they were right.

He really, _really_ wants to maim something right now.

You know, there had been this one long minute in his life.

This one long minute where he realized he had already set himself on a path before he thought about it, yet again. He realized too late that he'd already made choices that would result in him becoming one man or another.

When he first told Chuck that he loved him, it was a rising swell in his head, a fucking tidal wave and it crested and came down and he had Chuck's glasses hanging off one of his fingers, kissing him like coming home from war. Chuck hadn't said it back, but it's not like he gave him the opportunity. And he kissed back as if there was nothing to doubt.

There wasn't.

Chuck was the one who actually had to go to war, then. The prisoner of an enemy until they found him wounded and broken by Sandalphon.

Then it was Chuck who said that he loved Sam.

And Sam said nothing.

It rushed on him. The realization that he'd already made himself into his father.

That was the moment. That was it.

It wasn't like with the other people he'd loved because they didn't know what Sam's life really looked like.  
But him and Chuck are on _a level_ together. Whatever things Chuck may not know about Sam's life he's actually forgotten himself. He's told him everything; they are _dead even_.

From that point-- from _before_ that point, if he had chosen to change tack and leave Chuck alone, Sam would have ended up that drunk, damaging scar on the world. Too lonely to try again and too used up to inflict himself on anybody else and too busy imagining the beautiful life that hunting took away from him.

In Winona, really. From the point he gathered Chuck in his arms for the first time, and Chuck's absolute trust in him resolved into him letting himself be enveloped and held and made to feel better, Sam hit the fork in the road:

To leave Chuck alone from that point would result in the final, numbing agony.  
Sam took steps down that side. Didn't speak to him for weeks. And then.

Chuck called. Not even tipsy. Just sad because he gave in and tasted a beer and kept going.

Sam was determined to let Chuck escape his orbit.

But at the sound of Chuck's voice, he didn't even fucking _try_ to forget him anymore.

He ran around his room throwing things in his bag and called Chuck again and Chuck didn't answer. Just hung up.

Sam sat in the shower. Agonized. Sat in a towel on his bed. Agonized. Didn't sleep, just agonized. Woke up to an empty day with nothing to do and pretended to read the news and only agonized.

Didn't even tell Dean he was leaving.  
Agonized in the car on the way there.

It wasn't worth the agonizing. He knew he was going back. He knew he was gonna choose to be alive and in love for as short a time as it may last rather than becoming Dad.

It simply wasn't in him to refuse. He'd walk after Chuck until he heard the words and then Chuck said, "I love you" and he had no idea what to do with it.

Sam laughs at himself sometimes because he tried so damn hard to give Chuck room to ease into it but the first time he directly mentioned sex he went so hard he could have dropped against Chuck's shoulder, reached in his jeans, stroked twice, and come.

There were no paths. No options.

Well. There _were_. And he didn't want any of them.

If Chuck walks out of this loving him like it turned out he loved him after Sandalphon, he's going to be a wreck.

He's already a wreck, so he'll just plan on being an absolutely _exhausted_ wreck. He will pour himself into Chuck's hands and ask to be carried to their ritual and there won't be any need for holding hands so long as Chuck doesn't drip him anywhere.

He sat in a stolen truck once, telling himself to go meet Dean and Cas at the next storage locker. He was going without Chuck. Had told him to stay put. He gripped the steering wheel and felt like as soon as he started the fucker, he might as well be driving into the black-endless vacuum of space.

Roads without Chuck were suddenly no longer roads.

They were _bvtmon tabges babalon_.  
A hole to drop down with death at the bottom.

All at once he wanted more rules. He wanted Chuck to _tell him_ not to leave him. He wanted Chuck to _tell him_ he wasn't allowed to think about cages. He wanted to tell Chuck to sit next to him and have Chuck respond, 'No chance, it's my turn to drive, sit the fuck down.'

He wanted both of them to have rules that kept them in the same car, on the same road.

Wanted -- _wanted_ to be utterly bereft when he had to leave Chuck behind.

He wanted what he's feeling now.

When he sees Chuck again and Chuck's still in love with him, it's going to be the end of Sam's world.

He built this world on waiting to get left and waiting to die alone.

Chuck's not going to do either and he's going to have to crowd in and live on his tiny planet with him. Home/planet. Home-slash-planet.

Sam wants his home back, his planet back, his home-planet _back_. So badly that he's positive the adrenaline would pump hard enough to let him clear the building, floor-by-floor, all on his own, no problem.

He wants Chuck here telling him to do it.

He wants Chuck here telling him to do it _so much_ that he hears loud-and-clear what it is he'd actually be saying.

He sighs and shrugs and everything cracks because he's been sitting stiff and stressed and.

Okay. Fine.  
He's too fucked up to do this.

 _It's like doctors_. He hears Chuck's voice point this out. _Professionals don't get to operate on the ones they love._

Dean and Charlie should go in.

He should go...  
He doesn't even know.  
Buy flowers? And a bigger wedding ring? And a whole Costco-sized coffee cake.

What the fuck do you do to apologize for being a bad hunter? Letting your fiancé get arrested for the crimes you committed? Watching him get pistol-whipped for resisting arrest and not firing up the car and charging through the entire SWAT team for what they did?

He closes his eyes and twists his hands on the wheel.

He needs more good words. He needs to remember Chuck telling him he's not bad and that he's loved and he needs to let his family help.

He _does know_ , at minimum, that Chuck would tell him he's a hypocrite for holding his headache closer than his family.

Fucking okay.  
Alright.

He hits ignore as Dean's phone calls him again and calls Cas.

"Sam. Where are you." It's a demand.

"You in the city yet?"

"Yes. Dean said you were on the street outside?"

"I'm not. I'm coming out now. From. From the garage next door. I'll lead you to a gas station. Just follow, okay?"

The phone indicates another call.

"And tell Claire to call Dean and tell him to fucking stop it. I'm coming back out, I swear," he started off sounding angry and ended just. Defeated.

Cas is quiet a moment. "I'll follow," he finally agrees.

Sam pays cash for his seriously injudicious little parking-garage shitfit. Exits down the one-way and eventually sees Charlie's car in the rear-view.

At the gas station, he unlocks his jaw from a painful clench before getting out of the car. He's not in sight of the building at all. If they take Chuck out of there and move him to another jurisdiction, they won't know about it until the order crosses someone's internal email.

Claire gets out of the other car first and assesses him head to toe.

Steps forward and hugs him from the side.

He can't help but cling for a second.

She likes Chuck, too.  
She probably understands them a little more than the rest.

"Tell me you've got a Coke or something in your bag," he sounds drained.

"I can do that. Back in a sec." She heads up to the Quick Mart and inside.

Cas comes to lean on his car with him.

"Charlie and Dean are getting ID fit to enter the building. Dean wants us to find an unmarked van and incursion gear in case the ruse doesn't get them to bring him outside. He's taking this seriously, Sam."

"I know, okay? I know."

"You're just," he wavers, shrugs. "Fucked up right now."

He would laugh because Dean's words coming out of Cas's mouth still sound weird sometimes.

But. You know. He is fucked up.

"I don't wanna sit this out."

"I think we all know that, Sam. But you're not in a helpful place right now." Cas takes a deep breath. "No matter what your instincts told you to do when they were touching the person you love and taking him away? You did the right thing. You couldn't have won against that large a team. You did the right thing."

"Well, it still feels like shit, so?" he snaps.

And cracks his neck and looks down at Cas.

"Sorry."

"It's fine, Sam."

They wait until Claire comes back with a coffee and a soda.

He kind of. Has to take the soda right now.

Cas takes the coffee after they both eye him for a moment.

"You guys got it out of the way, at least, right? I mean if this is all that happens?" Claire pulls another soda bottle from her jacket pocket and cracks it open.

They both stare at her a little odd.

And shit.  
It hits Sam before Cas figures it out.

He puts the drink down on the top of the car and walks away, clutching at his head, huffing, trying not to lose it in front of all the civilians pumping gas.

It's the goddamn _spell_.

The goddamn wedding is a goddamn spell and it's trying to bite them in the ass before they take their fate in their own hands.

This is the fucking universe balancing itself out right on the eve of his fucking marriage.

"Fuck's SAKE," he shouts.  
And pulls himself together and wanders back.

Cas and Claire stare at him nervously as he chugs half the Coke.

He caps it and shoves it in his jacket. Points an accusing finger at Cas. "You two fucking told me it wouldn't be like this. You said 'no permanent damage' - you said it might bite back but we would be okay."

Cas stands up perfectly still against Sam's towering so he doesn't get the satisfaction of even intimidating somebody today. "And he will be fine. We'll get him back in one piece. The American government doesn't execute someone in a single day if it's possible to make a spectacle out of him, first."

Sam pulls a hand down his face and barks at Cas, "They fucking _hurt him_."

"Hey," Claire steps in and presses a hand on each of them, "you know Cas can fix that! Fucking chill, Sam. God. It's gonna be fine!"

Cas stands perfectly still except for reaching a hand down and then pressing the car keys to Claire's hand.

"Follow us in Charlie's car. Go."

He just dead stares at Sam until she's in the car.

Then Cas very calmly grabs Sam's shoulder and silently gives him the option to get his arm wrenched off or be lead to the passenger seat.

He lets Cas toss him in the car. And just tries to control his fucking self.

Cas drives out to a motel to pick up their standard routine. He goes into the front office alone and comes back with keys. He stashes Sam in a room and leaves the door open but takes Sam's car keys with him to the next room where he sets Claire up.

Sam sits on the floor, against the bed, and drinks the damn soda and feels fucking hungry and fucking just hates himself. He holds Chuck's glasses and puts them in his pocket. Takes them out again. Puts them on top of his own head. Decides he shouldn't risk breaking them with his giant skull. Hooks them over his collar.

Eventually, he hears the car before he sees anyone. And three minutes later, Dean's in the doorway, shrugging. Sits on the floor next to him with a cheeseburger, half-eaten in a foil wrapper.

He listens to Dean chewing for a minute before he reaches over and snatches it and checks under the bun for anything gross and eats the rest himself.

They just sit in silence and Dean doesn't judge him. For fucking once.

"Listen," he says eventually, as they hear one of the cars go, "We could only get that chick to give us one ID. I guess she only trusted Charlie with something that hot. She wouldn't even let me in her place. But. Charlie's gonna handle it. She's heading out now-"

Dean's hand is already up and he puts all his strength into his elbow to keep Sam pinned down.

"Give me a fucking reason to knock your ass out and lock you in here until we come back with him," he doesn't need to threaten. He knows Dean has him in two moves from where he's positioned. "Could you fucking trust me when I say I won't let some fucking suits mess with my little brother's wedding day? Like I understand, okay? But considering I'm not gonna object at. all. to you marrying this bozo, could I please have my fucking... familial... like, benefit-of-the-doubt back?? Please? Sometime this lifetime, maybe?"

Sam sinks back and Dean lets go.

He can't handle this.  
Yeah. That's become perfectly clear to him.  
He's not handling this well.

"We're gonna rip off a van and stand by just in case. I figure we call something in to one of the townships, get them to leave minimal manpower behind, go 'confiscate' some of their high-power gear. And as soon as Charlie gets him out of the building all nice and safe, you can have him back. We'll be right there."

Sam's rubbing his upraised knees. Dean watches for a minute.

"You have to know I'm proud of you."

"For not killing everybody," Sam scoffs.

"For building yourself a home and trying to protect your husband. Fiancé."

Sam stares at him.

"I don't know why. But I guess. After a while I figured you stopped wanting to stop. To. Have home and have people. You don't really deserve to run yourself into the ground, no matter what you think of yourself. I'm just. Happy we learned how to change our minds."

They blink away from each other.

After a while, Dean nods. "It also helps that you didn't slaughter twenty feds this morning, so, yeah, that, too."

«»

Getting the equipment is easy. Claire and Krissy do most the work.

Dean drives them around and, just to put himself to use, Sam is the one who gets out and hotwires a van.

They get into the stolen incursion gear and swing by the building to pick Cas up. He directs Dean to the gas station, looks left and right and pulls a license plate out from under his coat.

"Alberta?" Dean reads. Considers. "Good job, Cas."

"I perused a few parking garages. Traditionally, Americans don't know the difference between provinces, so Charlie can claim to be from wherever she likes. I doubt we'll be challenged. The farce is already so tenuous that-"

Dean elbows him and he shuts up and Sam just sinks back into his seat.

They wait around the block until Charlie calls.

Cas is the one to head in and meet her for exchange of custody.

Sam can't calm his breathing down.

The agents crowd out first, looking unhappy.

Who needs aisles and bouquets when he has to sit at the back of this fucking van? He can sweat through stolen police equipment instead of a tux.

Charlie draws Chuck out into the street and some asshole asks her to make sure he gets locked away forever or some shit.

They have to exchange cuffs and Charlie pretends to tug and make sure they're secure but she leaves one side loose and lets Cas haul Chuck into the van.

Chuck smiles at him. One half of his face bruised. Oh fuck. Chuck _smiles at him_.

"Oh, this Canadian makes up for all the others."

He sits and the others can't get the door closed fast enough and fuck it and fuck this helmet and fuck those cuffs and fuck everything else--

He hauls Chuck in and goes for his mouth. It's dry and he tastes sour but Sam _needs_ these kisses. Needs him close and whole.

He holds Chuck's head steady and keeps his hand away from the bruise because it looks _so bad_ and his crab looks _so worn out_.

But when he saw Sam.

He smiled.

If some other bullshit happens or the spell goes south or anything at all stops them from having some dumbass ceremony just so they can say with some measure of certainty that they're married, like, within the next 24 hours? They're just going to Nevada.

He has a husband. Chuck is in it with him forever. It's hard to fucking believe some spell is gonna make that more of a sure thing.

He let Chuck get taken from him and Chuck came back smiling and let himself be kissed.

They fake a fiery accident on the highway and go to Steak n' Shake. They can't really go in looking like they're stopping over after invading a country - Charlie reasons with Dean to get him to leave the tactical gear behind.

The fam let Sam and Chuck get a booth to themselves. He watches from up close, with his head dumped down on Chuck's shoulder, as he puts away two orders of cheese fries and two coffees.

Chuck leans their heads together a few times. And holds up one fry after another for Sam to lean forward and snatch out of his fingers.

"To answer your question?" Chuck says into the silence, "I'm fine."

Sam hadn't asked in a while. He was trying to tone it down.

He's not doing a great job finding his calm. So it's a good thing Chuck offers to let him know.

"I wanna go home," he whispers, arm tucked down into his lap, one hand wrapped around Chuck's knee, the other stirring the sugar into Chuck's mug like a nervous habit. Basically hanging on to his very presence for dear life.

Chuck kisses his head and Chuck kisses his mouth and Chuck tastes like coffee.

Maybe, at this point, coffee tastes like Chuck.

«»

He maybe intends to stay up and watch Chuck sleep. Instead, he's surprised to wake up in the morning to a scratching, a clicking. Like somebody breaking in to their motel room.

Flashes of Ottawa and he climbs over Chuck to shield him.

But he grabs the gun under the pillow just as Claire cracks open the door and starts using a rubber band to pull back the chain.

It's weird how little she gives a fuck about their privacy. But maybe also kind of refreshing that she doesn't look at them sideways when they touch.

Her parents were very loving, Cas said. She's familiar with that openness. She's had to close herself off, but openness draws her.

Sam does get to watch Chuck when he falls back to sleep, though. After Claire leaves and he drifts back off.

He's cheating on the whole concept. There's an endless loop of _husband-husband-husband_ tripping through his head as he fans his fingers out down and down and down Chuck's belly, petting him.

He shouldn't be allowed to use the word yet but he won't be waiting anymore. He's just not waiting anymore.

This isn't a muggle marriage and it never would have been. The moment Chuck told him he chose him forever was when he proposed. Formalizing it is the thing to do and it's gonna be solid and good when they lock that bind in place between them.

Like, yeah. Whatever. It's gonna be for real.

But it was for real. It has been for real, as far as Sam's concerned.

If it weren't for the limited number of days per year when the ritual could be performed, he wouldn't have waited. He wouldn't even have finished reading all the research. He would have set it up and told everyone they were coming to witness. He would have done it months back.

Chuck smiled at him.

After spending the day in custody, under interrogation. He came home to Sam and smiled.

He is tougher than anyone ever gives him credit for. He trusted Sam and his family to come get him.

Chuck smiled at him. And he's ready to get married today.

They're on the same wavelength. Maybe that was worth the wait. For him to corner Chuck again and again and repeat touches on his body and make sure he had the whole thing memorized. For him to learn about the hallway and watch the times Chuck did and did not succeed at climbing out past a memory threatening to drown him.

The ways that their minds don't fit - because Chuck was a prophet and Sam's had the damn Devil in his grapefruit - they'll work it out.

They'll work it out. They _will_ fit and he's not going to worry.

He knows the weight of Chuck in his arms and how many hours he can sleep and wake up without needing caffeine immediately. He knows Chuck's habits and how they form and he has studied. He has studied. He will never stop studying.

Because this is a job. There are people who don't do this job right or they get the job and they slip and do a so-so job and leave it to rot.

If he's gonna back off being a hunter and step up in this job, he's got the time and he should do it right. He's never gonna be--

He has to learn.  
Like Dean did.

He's never gonna be Dad.  
He's never going to be John Winchester.

He's going to be Sam Winchester, Chuck's husband, Dean and Charlie's brother, Cas's brother-in-law.

He won't just be what's inside his blood anymore.  
That includes John.

That includes Azazel.

Sam is only going to be the choices he makes.

He chooses to wear the gray suit today.  
He chooses to reach down and circle a thumb over Chuck's knee while he sleeps.

«»

Charlie gives Chuck directions on the phone while Sam drives. Claire wanted to chauffeur them out there but Sam had to have something else to do with his hands. She fiddles with her phone, sneaking pictures of them. Chuck keeps avoiding her and ducking down in his seat, but Sam hopes someone at least gets one good picture. The regular wedding-type things haven't been on his mind.

He's got to try to focus, now. Positive thoughts about him and Chuck together so that the bind takes. Doesn't fight back too much.

They get to the empty lot, deep down a rubble road, behind trees and mounds of stone.

He kills the engine.

"You guys need another minute?" Claire asks, tentative like she's the one getting nervous now.

"Could you?" he asks her in the rear-view.

She shuts the door behind her and goes to where Cas and Krissy are waiting.

The half-hour quiet freak-out they had together was kind of nice and normalizing. He reaches over and gets Chuck's hand in his again. "It's gonna be rough, maybe."

"Yeah. I know," Chuck takes his three-hundredth deep-breath of the morning and Sam takes it with him. He likes to think of their breath in sync, their heartbeats along with it. "I don't wanna fuck this up. I hope this works. I think if I lost my whole civilian identity to this thing, it's already consumed its sacrifice and it'll make good on its half of the deal." He turns, wide-eyed, and shrugs.

They both know that's no guarantee. The universe likes to balance itself out but that doesn't mean they'll get _this_ good thing in return for the bad.

"Just think good thoughts for me, okay?" he squeezes Chuck's hand. Pulls it up and kisses the back of it which is kind of becoming a nervous habit.

Chuck nods. It doesn't seem like he can talk anymore.

They sit for another long moment and Chuck looks over. And kinda laughs out his next deep exhale.

"What?" Sam smiles.

"I'm never gonna get over that look."

"What look?"

"I think it's time to get out there."

"Sit for a second?"

Chuck nods, squeezes his hand, lets go.

He goes around the car to get Chuck's door and offer his hand again. Which he refuses to stop doing even though Chuck has called it "dramatic." He never really wants their whole deal to stop being overblown and romantic.

He might steal them a pick-up truck while the house is under construction so he can help him step up and down from it. It'll look like practicality but it'll secretly be for romantic stuff and it'll take Chuck all of five minutes to figure that out but he'll do it anyway. Then he'll get used to it. Then Sam will get him in the habit of having doors opened for him. Because his husband is a tiny prince and should be treated like it.

"Could you stop thinking whatever you're thinking because your face is goofy as all hell and everybody's gonna think I was giving you a last-minute handie or something."

Sam attempts to straighten his face. Sweeps a hand down Chuck's back as he walks them up to the old broke-down foundation.

«»

The thing is, they're both pretty sure they're gonna mess up.

From the moment they sit down, Sam is running a mantra through his head: _Chuck is as scared as you. This isn't the only shot you have. This isn't the only shot you have. This isn't the only shot you have. Chuck is scared, too. Don't let him be alone._

So he insists, quiet and hoping no one will notice: they're gonna _try_ this. And if it doesn't work, it's not the end of the world. No one has done this in centuries.

This isn't their only shot.  
If they have to get married like civilians and then take another stab at the spell, that's okay.

Even if Chuck doesn't look like that's okay with him.

He looks freaked out.  
Like way back.  
A month after Winona, when Sam asked if he just wanted him to leave. When he offered to disappear and stop this before they got a chance to hurt each other.

And Chuck looked like there was nothing he wanted less in the world than to say goodbye.

That's when Sam started to understand that this was real. That he wasn't the only one feeling it.

Chuck says he has an in-love face.  
Sam knows that Chuck does, too.

It's breathless and scared like other times when Chuck freaks out.

It has a strange effect on Sam: it grounds him.

Not like Chuck is some freaked-out victim-of-the-week and he's got to get to work.

Chuck has seen both sides and it's the reality of the everyday that spooks the hell out of him. It's kind of fucked up how well he can handle hunts, immortality, angels, spirits, possession. What screws him up is mortality. Breakfast, lunch, and dinner. Driving and phones and human interaction. Sam looking him in the face and saying they can be married and it can be in a house and it can be for the rest of their lives.

When Sam stuttered out his "yes." The look on Chuck's face.

There are ghosts and there are _specters_.  
Chuck needs to know which one he is seeing.

His hands engulf Chuck's and he's not not not not _not_ letting go. The spell will push and he won't let go. He's not letting go until Chuck has what he wants. He's not letting go until Chuck can bind and protect him.

Sam's not letting go until he gets what he wants, either.

Sam is going to dig in and help Chuck sort out his head.  
He's gonna press their minds together until they know they won't end up alone.

As free as he's always wanted to be, free of the threat of intrusion and able to keep his own pain and his own happiness and his own anger and rage inside of his own self, he's discovered that he might be stronger, individually, if he lets someone prove that they love him this incredibly much. If he _listens_ to a simple but important set of words. Like, "you're so good" and "you are worth it" and "I want to help you."

He's gonna let Chuck help him take control of his own self.

In return, he's going to protect his husband.

Sam is going to dedicate his soul to his family.

Chuck's little writing hands trust his big, murderous ones. Sit inside of them and wait to be rocked and hurt and threatened by a spell.

Sam reads _Love you_ , on Chuck's lips one more time.

And that's real. More than the nervous pressure of his thumb in Sam's palm.

He's in love on his wedding day and that is _real_.

«»

Sam feels the heat of it like Chuck must. He breathes and he makes it bearable. He tries to recall some of the words they picked apart. Tries to hear them as Cas circles and reads them aloud.

He concentrates and he holds Chuck tighter than strictly necessary, expecting the spell to tug them in opposite directions at any moment.

It's there.  
It's an unhappy, unsettled feeling unfurling in the world.

The witchy smell and taste of the air as the surrounding trees clear out and the world makes room for something it's not happy to have to cough up.

It approaches from the sides and presses in on them.

His skin goes warm, like he visualized when reading: the soul too close to the surface. To reach one, you normally have to dig into someone's center. It's as if he can feel it being squeezed up, and it's reluctant to do what the spell is intended for. To hot-fuse into a shape it wasn't meant to.

Sam is trying not to think of it.

Not the ceremony itself. Not the spell.

He's trying not to think of _what it means_. What it's doing.

Because if he thinks the words too often they sound unrealistic. It sounds too fantastic and, quite frankly, _fake_ to be real.

But he wondered it last night. He wondered, back while he was reading and interpreting and taking down notes. He wondered in the long hours reading through Cas's translation again. His cross-throughs and Chuck's. The things they very specifically did not say. He wondered while he looked down from the book to where Chuck slept at his hip.

~~A meeting of souls. A forging of souls. A mating of souls.~~

He can't be thinking those stupid words. (But he is.)

(And he wants them. Wants them with Chuck. With the person who's made it his mission in life to reprogram Sam's instinct for blaming himself. He wants it with someone who always means it when he says that Sam is okay.)

The magic comes in tighter, now. Hotter and meaner and ready to fight them if they persist.

He's feeling it and he tries... but he knows they can all see.

Dean's there. And he comes closer than he's supposed to. Cas keeps saying his words and eyes Dean, cautioning him, but he even goes as far as clamping his steady hand on Sam's shoulder and nothing changes. Nothing pauses and so Cas seems, tentatively, to approve.

Sam checks all their faces. Charlie looks as worried as Dean. She settles down, sitting as near to Chuck as she can without disrupting any of the ritual equipment.

She looks like she may reach out if it gets much harder for him. Sam doesn't know if that would help or hurt Chuck.

He steadies his grip on his hands. Focuses as Cas puts the book down within reach and picks up the chimes.

Sam has been dreading this part.

Essentially, existence is being called to witness to what is about to happen.

And object, if it must.

A sort of _If anyone here knows of any reason why these two may not be wed, speak now or forever hold your peace_ type of deal.

There's a din from everywhere. Each ring of the chime slams through them.

He tries to keep his eyes up and watch for Chuck, make sure he knows he's not alone in the throttling, but he can't. He needs to concentrate. He looks away.

And _tastes_ the panic. Wicked and unfiltered. Sam's getting shaken up, that's for sure, but he is familiar with his own emotions and this is _not_ all coming from him.

Something opened up. Something within them is speaking at a frequency they're not hearing. Warning each other that they're doing what they're not supposed to. They're going too far.

The excitement and interest he feels in knowing, all at once, that he's open and connected to the person he makes love with, lives with, _is marrying_ , is overshadowed by a loss of grip. Like feeling the wind come for you, the ledge slipping away from your fingers, gravel sliding and losing your foothold.

A spike of discomfort and panic and--

Relief.

When he can unclamp his eyes and look up, Chuck is doing the same.

At Claire. Who is crouched next to him, holding his right arm steady and pressed forward slightly, into Sam's grip.

Oh god. He can trust her with him. He can trust Dean - it was rocky before but he knows for sure, now - and he can trust Claire, who is growing in Dean's image and weirdly attached to the two of them.

He can trust her with his sweetheart. It's kind of a devastating moment and it only grows more wild when Dean mimics her on his right, Krissy on his left.

He watches Charlie rearrange some of the stupid party favors and she looks to Claire. Says, "Chuck, me too. Okay? I'm gonna help but I have to," she shrugs and her hands come down and he nods. Looks like he could choke with relief.

The peace lasts so long that, frankly, it's baffling. It makes no sense according to the text.

They all look at each other after a while like this is so easy it's... getting kind of awkward.

They all love Sam and Chuck. Love each other. And they're making this easier than it was intended to be.

Cas repeats a key phrase that Sam saw a lot of at one point in the text. A turning point. The peak leading to the downward slope.

He has enough time to breathe and flex his hands and feel Chuck's pulse within them and their connection is suddenly shoved away, like their own souls saw an opening and intend to run for it.

Chuck gives a worried little laugh as gravity seems to shift and the magic rears back like a spooked animal.

They all shoot wide-eyed looks at one another and Sam and Chuck's grip starts to shake.

Cas doesn't break stride. He kicks the other copy of the book toward Dean and dips to toss it open to a certain page where Sam can see his own handwriting, long and even in the margins.

Dean nudges it with his knee so he can read, struggling, like they are, to keep his grip on his brother.

Dean's mouthing the words to himself, rapid and frantic, like trying to kill a monster with a hasty plan-B.

And whatever of them is still unwillingly connected bursts pain through Sam. It fucking seriously hurts. He's blinded by it too much to look up, to register anything or anyone else.

Dean says something over the fuzz-out of agony and Sam can't make sense of it until he feels Dean clamping his hands around them to keep them there.

Which has gotta fucking be against the rules but Dean is Dean and when he sees Sam this way, he just has to _try_.

He feels --

He's still in pain. Still being propelled _away_. But he feels like he's going somewhere. Like he's sinking under a riptide after fighting too long and--

Jolts. Gasping. Looking up to see Claire angry and Chuck rattled, wide-eyed. He glances up to Cas who kind of smirks and simply goes about his business, reading aloud.

There's something.

Something alive. And at the back of his mind. The roll of words not his own. Like when he muzzled Lucifer only. Simpler. Not crawling up his throat and ears and down into his limbs. But images that don't belong behind his own eyes. Like hearing the louder half of two people conversing in a room next door.

Holy shit.  
His mind knows what that is before he does.

His mind recognizes a pattern of words - written and heard. Read over Chuck's shoulder as he wrote because he wanted Sam to feel okay there. Halting from saying too much and still learning to keep the cockiness out because he's older, now, and aware that he doesn't know enough. He senses this filter. And pure _Chuck Shurley_ still comes through it. Pointed like his fingers poised over a keyboard and searching like when his head is cocked to the side and he's going through the motions of research until it-

Hits him.

 

Oh sweet fuck. He feels it. Oh fuck this is the smartest thing he's ever done.

He's never going to be alone again.

Chuck. _Chuck Winchester_. Significant Other.

He's there. On the other side of it. Reverbing through the heat-forged material. He has access. He can help. He can be here.

Goddamnit. This moment is _married_ and _together_ and _romantic_ and Chuck is there, too. He can see him, now, looking across from him, released from the pain and wondering at him.

(He can sense him back there - a heaping dose of reality tying his hands to Sam tighter than those wrapped around them.)

It's so bafflingly _right_ he wonders if they fucked it up and it's this clear tunnel now, with all this human pressure keeping their new bind open, but it will close and disappear like it was never there when they let go.

He starts to ask aloud because, if the rules are already broken--

But Cas waves in his face telling him to shut up without breaking his litany from the book.

So. Instead. He listens.

Cas goes on and on. But it's Chuck he's listening to. Watching washed-out background images of Chuck's ideas play back vaguely familiar things.

He has to listen. Has to see and hear. It's like a concentrated dose of Chuck's voice and he wants to hear him like this when they're quiet in bed. Wants to put the other ring on him and show him that they're gonna stay this way and there's nowhere to slip off to. Including inside himself, beyond reach behind his memories.

They let the words happen around them and the air just goes back to being cool, tempering what's been pounded out and forged in them.

Their family still holds their hands tight until it's clear that there's no resistance. They each slowly peel off and move back to sit or pace.

Except Dean. He hangs on longest, finally pulls away tentative. Like he's not sure if the shocks will come back if he's not there to protect them.

He stays close even after he lets go and he looks grim like he can't believe he just facilitated that.

But the deed is done. And done well.

About as close to giving Sam away as he could possibly get: hanging on tight and making the spell work by sheer force.

He sees the pages past Dean's knee. His own handwriting says, **Bound only with flesh** , which he'd taken to mean that they were the only ones who could hold their own hands together.

Cas had been sure of it.

But their family is flesh if not flesh-n-blood in all cases.

So Cas pretty much told Dean to give it a shot.

Bet the ancients honored their gods more. Bet the people who originally practiced this tried and failed and moved on when it didn't work, as if it were some challenge that was supposed to have a certain failure rate.

It doesn't occur to him until this moment that maybe all the violent pushing from the spell had meant that it wasn't supposed to happen for these two people at this exact time.

It's just that Winchesters don't really give a shit.

Cas goes through the last of the ceremonial procedures and they don't seem to change the low-level whispers he can tune in to, now.

Sam braces himself when Cas raises the chimes again and Dean's eyes dart between him and Cas. But it changes nothing.

What does change is his entire life.

Cas comes to pull their hands apart, ending it all.

And there's something- some upgrade permanently opened to Sam's awareness that makes him feel _new_. Like it's been present but he didn't have the software to access the file type.

Chuck's mouth hangs open.

Sam can feel a quiet shade of his wonder. An impulse to pull. To test integrity.

He flexes his stiff hands.

Kind of... cocks his head, listening. There's a subtle fog of awareness not his own coming from. Just. Elsewhere.

And the fog turns to softness that folds out to touch both of them.

This Sam _knows_ Chuck can feel.

Like sharing a blanket. He is fully positive that they both know they're there.

There's a pause and.  
Well, let's get fucking real here.  
He was gonna jump his husband before anyone suggested it.

Sam kneels up and lunges forward and tackles Chuck probably a little rough against the ground and Officially Married Kisses have to happen for a while as the ladies applaud and whistle. He might actually do more maniacal laughing against Chuck's mouth than actual kissing. So it's a good thing he has Official Married Makeouts and Official Married Sex and Official Married Sleeping to look forward to.

Cas and Dean haul them off the ground and shove them toward the car. On the way, Cas digs in his pocket and passes Sam the rings.

While Chuck grabs a bundle of dried wildflowers from where they had to be hung for the ceremony and throws it at the side of Dean's face. It startles him and he fumbles to catch it.

"Fuck yeah! Dean caught the bouquet! Guess what, Cas!"

Charlie fucking _howls_.

Chuck gets his First Brotherly Winchester Shove.

«»

Sam feels stupid that he missed out on his First Official Married Breaths.

The First Kiss was pretty fun.

The First Married Car Ride.

He claims the First Married "Please" with a kiss.

None of it is new except that he wants it all to be.

The feeling between them. The bind. They don't have the words for it yet.

They kiss each other. They try to feel.

Sam's a little worried that Chuck's voice hasn't gotten clearer within him. It's a dull impression somewhere far away, most vivid when they're touching. Whether word, thought, image, or emotion, it's only as clear as a watermark. An impression that he feels but is too washed-out and embedded to feel the edges of.

The fact that it _does_ feel stamped-in and embedded is what's really fucking thrilling him. It makes the connection impossible to question. It _is_ there. Something that wasn't hooked up within him is now broadcasting.

Perhaps it doesn't get louder. Or maybe they have to practice to hear more.

It's kind of _whatever_ right now. Like, yes, it's very important.

What's a little more important is that Chuck's right here, wearing both the rings Sam gave him, cuddled up close, the currents of his thoughts casting waves against foreign shores, and they did it.

They got married without letting anything stop them. No one allowed this to fall apart around them. It's so amazing that it all stayed glued together that the years stretching out in front of them look _easy_.

Sam is still so excited for every "remind me of that again" - every tomorrow.

Chuck grins at his neck. "Calm down, Sammy. Lots of road in front of us," he says quietly.

Yeah.  
Good.

«»

As it sinks in and solidifies, the bind is like discovering that there's a new type of clothing that you can wear. Sam has no other way to describe it.

If Chuck has words for this, he's not speaking them.

They look at each other and there's a shift like when you pull your jacket around yourself. Like fabric moving across his consciousness.

Chuck makes curious faces every time he looks at him now.

He needs to know this much, at least: "You feeling that, too?"

Chuck looks away. And back at him. He shivers. "Think so."

"Normal?"

He laughs just-slightly too loud for the under-patronized diner they're in. "Why do you think that word is _ever_ going to apply?"

Sam wavers and smiles. "Okay."

"Um. I think. I definitely feel. Like. Like." He just ends up shrugging. "You have my attention," he gives a little breathy laugh this time. "You're so, super _there_."

Yeah. That's how Sam feels. Chuck can't help but have Sam's attention. He's _very there_.

"I'm in love with you," Chuck breathes.

Sam cannot _wait_ to be inside of him again.

He wants to feel this when they're too-close and tangled up already. He wants that new fabric to rub so hard there's static.

He's imagining coming with Chuck wrapped around his cock and his soul both and, yes, that equals an inappropriate, middle-of-the-restaurant boner.

He winces and shifts.

Chuck's about to say something but the Impala purrs out in the parking lot and they both kind of look embarrassed.

Maybe he mentally gave Chuck a boner, too.

Chuck reaches over and flicks his fucking ear.

"When we get out of here I need a verbal play-by-play. We're not gonna store this up in our skulls and just hope we hear it someday. I don't think this comes naturally. I think we're gonna have to practice. Okay?"

Well. Then he's gonna admit to having an inappropriate hard-on later, anyway, so he draws Chuck close and nips his ear. Kisses it. Whispers, "Okay. Want you alone."

"Do we care if we gross them out right now?" he checks.

"No. We just fucking got married. They're lucky we're doing this with clothes on," he finishes with one more kiss as Charlie leads the way in.

"You fruits are so sweet."

"You're a pretty sweet fruit, yourself," Chuck grins. "Do you think they've ever had this many queers up in this diner before?"

"I hope not, I like making history." She pats Sam's shoulder on the way around. "Sorry, gotta sit next to the bride. He's my new favorite brother."

"Aww," Sam puts on a cute face at them.

Chuck shoves at his face like, _stop_.

Charlie's at the head of the table and Dean takes the other end, next to Sam. Krissy across from Sam, and Claire clunks down across from Chuck pretending to text while actually taking pictures.

They really need to work on her stealth because Chuck props his head in his hand to obscure it and turns wide-eyed to Sam.

"You're supposed to protect me from the papz."

So he puts both hands, spread wide, against the sides of Chuck's face and pulls him in close to kiss.

"Do that but with less hiding," Claire says.

"Please don't encourage them," Dean gripes but it's light and he's making room for Cas to wedge in nice and tight to his own side.

They make plans while they order and eat.

Tentative plans, because the world could always blow up in between.

And they're all real nice about not giving away Sam's plans for tonight. There's some light ribbing about a Canadian honeymoon and then talk of an annual haunting Krissy wants to work in Savannah.

Sam's having a hard time untangling feelings at the moment. The fit of his thoughts is a little strange.

He's happier than usual, for one.  
But he just got hitched. You know.  
He should kind of be allowed.

"How's your brain?" Dean leans close to ask.

"Uh. Fine. I, guess. Kind of. Um. Elastic?"

Dean gives him a weird look.

And Cas?  
Castiel smiles.

He doesn't say a damn word until they're all stuffed with diner food and out in the parking lot.

Until after he asks for - and _receives_ \- a warm and honest hug from Chuck.

They actually all stop and stare at that.

Cas claps Chuck on the back one more time before letting go and turning to Sam.

"May I?" he asks, two fingers held up.

Sam hesitates.

But Dean gives him a look, like, _C'mon. It's Cas._

"Uh. Okay?"

Cas's fingers touch down on his head and Sam hasn't seen him smile this much since they got him out of the mental hospital.

He drops his hand.  
Nods. Says: "Nothing. I can't hear anything."

Um. Holy fuck.

He looks down to Chuck.

Chuck grins. "Wanna see what happens if I give him permission?"

Sam busts out a laugh.  
"N-no, actually. Not at all."

He has no idea what to fucking do. What to say. The rest of their family leaves, smiling and satisfied. They take the Impala and leave the two of them and their car in the dust of the parking lot.

Sam clings to his husband.  
"Oh god," he gasps. "God. Chuck. You make me _so happy_."  
He's never, ever letting go.

«»

They're quiet for the first part of the car ride back.

Sam sees an old ruin of a farmhouse far in the distance and pulls off the road to get to it.

The car ticks in the shadow of it with the engine off.

"This is like one of our in-jokes," Chuck comments. "We're lousy with in-jokes." He tosses his jacket again and climbs over to straddle Sam.

"I like our language. I like that you're my lock-and-key now."

Chuck considers him. Then looks down to open his pants. "I don't feel like that," he comments. "It feels more like. Like thread or something. Like sheets and blankets."

"Yeah." Sam searches himself. Presses his awareness against this new thing and it.

It is kind of like a cape, maybe. A veil. Or yeah, maybe like a blanket.

"Like a shell but soft," he finally decides.

Chuck perks. "Maybe we made it that way."

"That would be cool."

"What do you feel when you look at me?" he finally looks up to meet Sam's stare.

"Like. Like I'm about to shout something. It presses on my throat. I think I'm gonna tell you to come closer. Or something." Chuck scoots forward on his lap and holds his head in both hands. "And. You're really, really _there_. I feel like I can touch you even when I'm not touching you. Feel like I'm."

"In your atmosphere."

"God, yeah," rushes out of him and he surges forward to get his mouth on him. Kisses all over. "Oh my god I wanted this. It worked. I wanted this for us. Oh god, our _shell_ ," he enthuses. "This feels so good."

And it gets better. Touching him is like hiding in soft, cool sheets and pulling Chuck around him and sharing his skin and getting his hair touched all soft and petting.

Something that _cares for him_ is putting up curtains to shield his soul.

Chuck shivers again but he's not cold to Sam's touch. He hopes he's feeling this, too.

Chuck moves him to his neck and hugs his head.

Where Sam would normally want to sink his teeth in and give Chuck marks, he just presses his nose and inhales and closes his eyes because that's so good. Dipping his tongue and kissing - even better. Better than it was before.

"Marriage magic. Holy shit," he groans and mouths around.

Chuck laughs. "Marriage magic?"

"You taste amazing," he kisses up to Chuck's ear.

"Oh," he says, like he just made sense of something. "You did marriage magic, too."

"Cool, what did I do?" he barely has time to pull back and ask.

Chuck moans under his wandering. "Things are real that weren't real before. I trust you. I can trust your touch your hands your words your _everything_ more. It feels like. It feels like you're always exactly where I expect. Every way you move I can trust."

"Oh god yes. You can trust me. I'll touch you right. Nobody else does. I do it right for you, I'll be so careful with you. I'll protect your body."

"It's--" Chuck gasps as Sam opens his shirt to get at him more, "it's been building up. I didn't even notice. I trusted you to get me home from the feds and now that I'm your touchstone it's like, of course?? Of course you know me. You've been practicing. You've been getting me ready. You want me to trust you to touch me even if I still can't trust anyone else. You'll always be big and fit all around me. I know where I _belong_. It's amazing."

Oh, fuck yes.

He removes Chuck's shirt entirely and moves his hands down his back, feeling for the tension in the muscles there.

He's still stressed and tight. But those little spots of ease are even better. He moves like skin and flesh under Sam's hands instead of going more rigid.

He _trusts_.

"I'm so proud of you. Kind of proud of _us_. I think we studied and we figured this out and then we decided to trust each other. I'm gonna live in you for the rest of my life. I mean. The house will be nice. But you're my own personal space."

"You wanna decorate me?" his eyelids have dipped while he absorbs Sam's wandering over his back.

Sam lifts his hand to kiss over his ring. "I did that today."

Chuck grins. "Wanna do it more?"

"Of course. Where do you need me?"

"You can start by telling me how good it tastes to give me a hickey," he shrugs like _maybe?_

«»

So Sam planned something.  
It's not much. It's kinda just what he needs and if Chuck needs more he'll do anything and everything for him tomorrow. Make a whole day of it. But he needs just this one last thing to cap off a very long wedding day.

Chuck just lost his entire identity to their marriage. That shouldn't have happened. Sam can remedy that in the most basic sense - they reinvent themselves on a weekly basis, they have the tools and experience to fake all kinds of identification - but Chuck had a place in the real world for most of his life and Sam's worried that it won't be quite enough for him.

He's kind of hoping this helps.  
A solid foundation for the both of them.

If Chuck has to start over again, Sam will be right next to him for that.

There's a better lock on the gate, after all. They'll protect their roots.

The house is just far enough along, framed out and all the newly-delivered materials pushed to the side.

They close the fence after they drive in and Sam escorts him to where the front door will be and stops him. Refuses to be embarrassed about it.

"You've gotta let me do this one," he smiles. "It's the ultimate romantic move."

"Yeah, um. I'm a nerd? So I was actually hoping for this," Chuck turns and lets himself get picked up and carried in, but in their way, like Sam normally carries him.

He takes him to where the kitchen will be. Where Chuck's big window will face east. He sets him to stand. Then Sam sinks to his knees and wraps himself around Chuck's legs.

"I have to do something now, and. Just hear me out, okay? Because, um. I've told you everything I can think of. I don't know if I was trying to dissuade you or warn you or make you change your mind. But it was good that I did it anyway. Because I wanted your eyes open so you knew who you were marrying. And what it meant to me. Means. What it means. Okay?" Sam leans back and looks up at him. Because he told. him. everything. All of it. Little injustices he grew up with and the way he really feels about Dad and everything about the soulless days. Everything he fears. Every time he's cracked open from loving somebody. Everything about Amelia. Jess. All of it.

Chuck reaches down to his hair, a touch of concern. "Okay." He steps back and sits down in front of Sam. He settles back to mirror him. Always completely ready to hear whatever Sam's got on his mind.

"So. Look. Maybe with a link like this between us now, I don't need to say this. Maybe this is gonna force fate or heaven or even hell-- whoever, to let us stay together. Maybe not. It's just that there's this understanding I had when I learned. Um. In heaven. That."

It takes more guts to say this stupid thing than he was prepared for. He's said dumber things that have gotten him in more trouble. And Chuck knows that he's an overly-sappy geek.

"When I learned that soulmates are a thing. And I was like, you know: all-time, meant-to-be, first-and-only-love. And I was sure I either had that and got them killed or that I lost out on it. I don't... know. If that's what this is? Not that cheesy word, you know? I don't need that word. I'm still, uh," he laughs at himself. "I'm still trying to use the word 'husband' out loud without, you know, _attacking you_. And stuff."

Chuck can laugh at that a little, too.

Sam licks his lips and stares at Chuck's hand while he concentrates. The thing is, it's totally fine that they had a wedding that wouldn't have looked real from the outside. Sam knows the meanings behind the typical ceremonies and how watered-down and far-removed they are from their origins and seeming intentions.

It's okay. It's really okay. The original meanings were sort of fucked-up anyway.

It means a little more that what they just did was in defiance of heaven's mandates and probably Sam's own intended ends on the planet. It means more that, not only did Chuck choose him, but Chuck chose him by asking if he could become his family and take over protective duties at the same time.

Chuck thinks he's worth protecting.

So they just devoted themselves to each other mind, body, and soul and there's a new soft space in the air between them where they can get mixed up and meshed together on a whole new level, in a space that belongs only to them. It's a place where he's hoping to connect with Chuck further because this guy asked to be his husband and he's kind of dying to share headspace with him. Have early and unrestricted access to his words, his brilliant thoughts, his private concerns.

And, in turn, Sam wants to do _husband things_ for him. Typical and atypical. He wants permission for intense things and he wants to make it crystal-fucking-clear that he's been longing to dedicate himself to somebody - to Chuck - so that they'll both end up so happy together that being apart and being lonely will be mutually detested. So they never feel like being away from each other.

It may be an unhealthy Winchester impulse to do that?  
But Chuck has a better gauge and a view from the outside. He'll regulate it if it goes too far.

Right now, Sam has to let go of his reservations and give in to what he wants with Chuck. He's been fucking dying for this. God damn the little voices in the corners of his mind telling him that he's just trapped Chuck and it's selfish to keep him all to himself.

He has to flush those out. Because they're lies.

Chuck wants him. Chuck doesn't wanna be alone anymore. They want to fit into each other's spaces and hook there. Not let go. They're going to put in the work to make this right every day.

"I wanted to say something," he states again. "Because. That wasn't really. I mean, I know what it means. And I don't need the muggle version. I promise. But I do want you to know. Just me, sitting here? Just one guy in the world. Just as some schmuck named Sam. I wanna promise you that I'll always be here for you. And. That I know that you've seen everything. And you kinda know how it works in here," he motions to his own head. "And you know how important certain... people-- you know how important Dean is to me. And you know how important this life and doing what I do, is to me. So. I should tell you that it's not just a matter of... vows. Like marriage vows, that just saying, oh, yeah, sure, I'll stick around 'till death do us part and stuff." He waves. "That's crap. What I'm. Huh. What I'm fucking _trying_ to say, at any rate, is that. I might not do it right all the time. But I want to elevate you and just. Make you my most important thing."

"Sam," he says, soft. "I know that's not how things go."

"See, that's what I'm saying," Sam tosses back his hair and scoots so he can touch the toes of Chuck's shoes. "You know what it's like and, no, it hasn't changed in the extreme. But I'm capable of shifting priorities and you're one of them. Kicking you up top is important to me and. As much as the rest of m- our family is important to me? I've been. Dude. This is like _two years_ , now. And a full year of me. You know," he shrugs, "telling you I love you and sleeping with you at night and patching each other up and seeing you naked and longer of just wanting you, non-stop. I mean, I know there have been longer engagements, but. That wasn't what I wanted. I wanted to get on this ride with you and let it take me to my new life. And that's where I'm heading and so. What I'm saying is: It's new. And I want it, even if it's a mystery. Even if we haven't been fighting at each other's backs for years. I want you to know it's different and that it's different in a good and important way. And as strange as my life is-- both feet. I'm jumping in with both feet and I can't wait for it to be different as long as it's wildly fucking different _with you_. Just. With you," he insists. "So. Sickness and health? And whatever else. Consider it done, if that's what you want. What's important to me is," he motions around them. "Houses or cars. Bunkers or the road. Sunday football or the apocalypse. You know? If you've got weird kinks, fuck it, I'm ready," he says, smiling so Chuck will laugh with him again. "And if you want to change who you are? Or stay the same? Or if you can't decide or you need help or you just need me to reach the curtain rod again because you yanked it down-"

"It falls on my head because it's out to get me."

"-yes, I know. I'm saying. Actually, literally anything. So. I know vows are promises are pacts are oaths. I know that. However we're bound together now, that's good. But it's not enough words for me. It's not enough for me. What I need is for you to know that what I promised you in Oregon is true. It's still true and it will stay true. What's more important to me than the words we could fabricate for that is all the ones we've already said and meant."

Sam takes a deep breath because there's something else and as much as he doesn't want to have to say it, it's something that Chuck shouldn't ever question or have doubts about. It needs to be out on the table, like every other detail.

"And also. If you ever start doubting that you're enough again, if you ever start wondering if I'm gonna give up on you and start wandering elsewhere? This is me saying that my feet won't ever walk me that far. If we wind up in trouble or we fight or we feel like shit, it's not gonna lead me to a place where I forget that, yeah, I'm capable of blowing up restaurants and tracking down demons and saving you. But I wasn't gonna make it very much longer without a best friend. Without someone who could help me untangle my head and be less lonely. And answer texts at two in the morning. And look at me like you're looking at me right now-- I'm so in love with you," a breath suddenly staggers out of him and he shakes his head. "And saving the world can happen more than once. But unless today actually repeats, I'm not gonna get another chance to marry you for the first time. I'm just. I'm not getting married again. This is the one time and I'm not _telling_ you that. I'm not _vowing_ that it's true. I'm saying, this is the moment from which I start proving as much with my actions. So just. Watch me, okay? I'm gonna make you fall in love with me again and again so I can see that look," he reaches over to thumb Chuck's face dry. "Watch me keep you and put you first and protect you and stick by you. Fucking watch me. I'm about to do all that and more. I just. I don't want you to have any doubts. I know we both don't think the best of ourselves. But we can think the best of _Us Together_. It's brand new so we have to give it a shot."

"Okay," Chuck sniffs and rubs at his eyes. "As far as marriages go, I'm now questioning whether ours is actually the first that's ever happened and all these other weak bastards are just spouting song lyrics at each other."

Sam kind of agrees. Maybe it's naïve, like saying you're the first people who ever had a love this great. But they are, more than likely, at least according to recorded lore, the first of their kind in this circumstance. "We're very serious people with very serious jobs and several serious head injuries. We're just operating on another level over here. I think everybody in our ceremony was armed and more than half of us qualify as the living dead. So. We hold ourselves to higher standards."

There's no roof yet and nothing much to illuminate the area besides a clouded quarter moon. Chuck looks up and Sam follows his gaze to the stars between the slow-moving masses. "I should say something, too. And under normal circumstances, you're never open to the reality of it when I tell you these things. But I'm gonna say them again and since we're stating our intentions here, our now-and-forever intentions? You're obligated to take me fucking seriously, got it?"

Sam shrugs. Takes a breath. "Okay. Got it."

"You're the best person alive and I win. I snagged you in a fucking Starbucks and I win, motherfucker."

"That was. Just. Magical. Inspirational. Thank you so much," he nods and grins.

"I don't think you fully appreciate how many zillions of people should have been in line ahead of me to so much as take you out for fucking ice cream, let alone end up sleeping with you and writing stupid stories with you and. FUCKING marrying you. Like, are you serious? Sam, you're the best human in the world. You bit the dust for this world. You took it in the teeth for this world. And I don't know if I can earn that. I just. I might not have it in me. I'm an incredibly tiny, petty, ridiculous person. I can do something, though. I can be the guy who sees all of that. Everything you are. And every time you start to doubt that you deserve to be happy, I can rail against you like you're attacking my favorite character. I am your ultimate fanboy. Also if you don't... like, hug me soon, I'm gonna be full-on bawling because I got married to you today and that's wonderful and I kinda wanna cry but I don't wanna bum you out. I mean, it would be the happy kind, but how about we just bask in this before we go find a mattress to crash on because this has been a couple of exhausting days."

Sam only has to hold his arms out and accept Chuck when he climbs into his lap.

They're touching, now, and the bind shifts from a rolling-fog softness to the both of them being wrapped in soft sheets again. He wishes he could hear what Chuck's thinking, clinging to him, eyes open and still going over their words. He feels a vague sharpness, and it might be self-reproach for the way he's near tears. At least that's the sense of it, the pattern of the vague replay, far off. Sam doesn't want him to feel that way so he kisses his damp cheeks.

"I need to say one more thing," Chuck says after a moment of quiet consideration. As if Sam weren't waiting for him to make more amazing words. As if he could somehow get enough of reading the world through Chuck's filter. "Thanks for making us equals, even if there are times when neither of us believe that to be true. I think the best I can do, especially in light of all you said, is to start believing it. To start acting like we are equals and like we do stand beside each other and like I am worth as much as you say I am, so you think the same of yourself. As for actions? You can watch me right back, dude. I'm gonna fall for you so fucking hard. Over and over again. I'm gonna sleep in your arms so good and cling to you like crazy. And save your life. And kiss the hell out of you. And give you everything I fucking have. Every tiny piece of me. And make every effort to make you so happy you don't know what it's like to walk around sad. Ultimate life goal, right there. That one's important to me."

Sam hugs him close. Breathes him in. "This isn't even romantic. This is intense. This is just us... world-building. Deciding what our atmosphere is made up of and how to shape the forests and how deep the sea goes. I mean, I'm in god-mode right now, this is serious business to me."

Chuck's nodding before he's done talking. "I get that. I do. Nothing is more important to me than you never getting left alone to think horrible shit about yourself. And nothing is more important to you than using your days to prove you can craft something good with your own hands. I understand that. This isn't gonna turn into a bad-guy thing, Sam. I'm not that ambitious. I just don't wanna let you get fucked up."

"So those are our plans."

"Our mission statements."

"Mission statements instead of vows. Should we make one mission statement for the both of us, too?"

"'Don't get fucking killed,'" Chuck sweeps his hands out as if envisioning it on a marquee.

"Uh. I mean, that works. It does."

"But we already have lifetime mission statements so you want a romantic one we can actually live up to. Because that 'Don't get fucking killed' part is actually trickier than it seems."

"Well, yeah. So. How about." He thinks. "'Never shut up.'"

"Because you like to hear me talk and I need to hear you talk more. Okay. I like it. We'll just base our marriage on gabbing our heads off."

"It'll serve us well, I think. I'll keep learning from you. And you'll keep telling stories from stuff I share with you. And the whole future will benefit when we leave books behind just packed full of our gabbing."

"So part of that is I get to say I love you until they come up with something better," Chuck says.

"Fuck. Good job, that was super romantic. But I have you beat. I know what sounds even better."

Chuck pulls him into a kiss.

"Lemme take you to bed, Significant Other."

"I got schooled on that one, wow," Chuck hangs on tight. "You taking me someplace?"

"I seriously had them set up a tent in the other room so we can spend our first night at home."

"I won the romantic sap lottery. Who knew I was even playing?"

"Am I worth an irresponsible fortune?"

"Absolutely. Sleep. Please. So tired. Bed time for all dead felons," he slumps against Sam.

He rises with Chuck in his arms. "Sleeping bag. Just warning you."

"I promise I don't care. I'm gonna end up half-way on top of you, anyhow."

«»

Morning light glows into the tent by degrees. Sam wakes up to it. Eventually.

They're both really tired. He probably shouldn't have insisted on this after the whole arrest ordeal, but.

First Married Night at Home.

First Morning.

They haven't passed the First 24 Hours yet.

He's not exactly in a rush for that time to pass.

Certainly not with the way the bind feels.

Strange that it felt most real, most vivid, during the ceremony when their souls were resisting the bind in the first place. He's kind of worried it will fade down further.

He's confused and more than a little disappointed that it's slipped so far into the background. He's hoping it has something to do with Chuck being asleep.

But. His brain already rejects the notion. Because he caught the tail end of a _whisper_ of a dream that didn't belong to him when he woke up.

It's still there. But it's far away. And, judging by what Chuck has said of it so far, they may actually be experiencing it in different ways.

Chuck seems to have found a tether between them. Meanwhile, Sam feels as if he's waiting in their bed for Chuck to come in. Knowing he's around simply isn't vivid enough.

He's not ready to panic yet or assume that something went wrong with the spell or that they didn't do it right. They've done a shoddier job on spells before. This was actually well-prepared by Winchester standards. No SpongeBob altar cloths or plasticware athames.

Some of the other reasons the bind could feel this way have to do with just... shape, time, experience.

Chuck gets locked in his brain a lot. There could be some kind of brick wall at the end of his hallway that he'll have to knock his way through to get to Sam. Or maybe he's so far down the other end, it will take him a while to find Sam where he waits.

But one of the benefits lies in this, too: Chuck has seen how Sam's brain works. He knows and he will arrive on that frequency eventually. Chuck will join him here. Chuck will probably figure out the bind for the both of them. It was his idea in the first place.

There is something about it that they share. Sam can feel it, can tell that Chuck feels the same way when softness envelops the bind and settles around both their hearts. An almost drugging haze of contentment that they can wedge in with each other and it's so _fucking_ good at times that Sam's eyelids flutter and close and he wishes there were some way to sink further into it.

He doesn't have the word for it. Or even a comparison or antonym. It's just the kind of feeling you wish would rise within you when you're at your most lonely. That thing you long for when you most feel lost and worthless -- that nameless opposite encompassing happiness and togetherness and the wonder of being understood.

It's that. But it's almost as soft as a real, physical thing. And he wants to pull and tug and layer it. He wants to wake Chuck up and try to get handfuls of it.

Sam stares. Chuck sleeps. First Married Morning. He leans up and over him a little to count his breaths, take his pulse, feel his resting temperature. He feels like he should know these basic things. Know what Chuck feels like when he's healthy and rested and calm.

He's a little cool so Sam tugs him closer. Puts a hand under his shirt so he feels safe. Because he recognizes that as something Chuck thinks he does really well.

Chuck makes a noise like interest, but it's a deep-dream sound. He's not awake yet. Sam wants company but he can be easy here for a while and just marvel that this is his person, now, for-real for-real for-real. He's gonna come home to Chuck all the time. He won't have to let this go. The bunker and the apartment could burn down and the roads could buckle and be consumed by earthquakes and zombies really could rise from their graves in hoards. He still wouldn't have to leave this behind. Chuck wouldn't want him to.

Sam grins all stupid because he wants to carry him around and make him laugh and spoil him and feed him sugar and commit petty crimes with him.

And he sinks to lay his head on him because it's also gonna be pretty thrilling to do dishes and sit in the dentist waiting room and gripe about bad tv and get lectured by Charlie and buy detergent with this guy.

He tries to be quiet and tune in to that whisper of images that isn't his own. He sees paper. Just, like, fly-away sheets of paper, but that's the only thing that comes in clear enough.

Sam tries to formulate something significant for them to do today. All he can think about is how he could take them to Hawaii on a cruise ship, but if they got made by anybody it would be a very confined space in which to hide for days on end.

He wonders of Chuck's family will get wind of his 'death' or if he should mention it. Maybe he could--

Wow. His insides shiver with a thrill when he thinks it. Maybe he could ask Chuck to introduce him to his family before they hear about it.

But what kind of fucking honeymoon includes family like that? He even told Dean not to call him for at least four days. Even made him promise not to text for at least three.

They don't go to Florida. He doesn't really wanna drag Chuck to any beaches. They're already camping and, from the way Chuck has rolled over and over in his sleep, he can tell that sleeping bags on the cold, hard ground will be out for the foreseeable future - no camping.

He could take him to a seriously plush hotel. It would feel good to lay him in fluffy, fresh sheets and eat him up all day long until they had food delivered.

He doesn't decide before Chuck wakes up, one arm stretching out, the other twisting free to come up and around Sam's shoulders.

Chuck blinks and Sam smiles.

"Your bony chin is practically in my lung, squid."

Sam breathes a laugh against him and moves to his shoulder. He can press forward to kiss his face from here.

Chuck makes a pleased little grumble and scoots, wedging closer. "Aw, we didn't have wedding-night sex," he frowns.

"We had wedding- _day_ sex in the car. Can I have my good-morning kisses?"

Chuck kisses him but pulls back. "We can't pee or shower or brush our teeth here."

"Mm." Sam kisses him anyway. "Charlie got our motel room. She stashed the key card here. She thought of that. I forgot you would need to pee. Sorry."

"S'okay," he yawns. "I wanna shower with you first. Then we can make another mess. I'm glad we woke up at home on our first-full-married day."

"Me, too," he can't stop grinning. Can't stop pressing their mouths. "I don't want you to explode, though, so you can pee and I'll get Starbucks while you hide under, like, seven layers plus some huge sunglasses."

"Ugh. I can't believe my gold card betrayed me!! Member since 2009!! Does loyalty mean nothing?!"

A crow caws outside, like it's complaining about his sudden noise.

Sam keeps smiling and just soothes his hands down his husband.  
His hand is slow at Chuck's stomach and he feels when a shock runs through him.

Chuck blinks up at him. "Come back here, please?" he asks quietly.

Sam curves over and kisses him.

"Hey, husband," Chuck whispers. 

Sam just dives in, biting at his mouth, fucking devouring him.

Chuck needs his breath back after a while and has to fall away, touching Sam right so he doesn't come after. "Felt that," Chuck says, shuddery. "It's true and you're here and this is real. Promise. I love you. You're my husband and _I love you_ so incredibly much." Sam clamps his eyes shut and turns to kiss at the palm holding his head. Falls down on Chuck again and, for Sam, he says, "Husband. I love you. I love you, Sam. Sam, my husband," just _over and over_ again between kisses.

"How did you feel it??" he finally tears away to ask.

Chuck's still panting but he closes his eyes and looks for the words to share this with him. "I felt you touching me and it seemed double-sided but, like, far away. And then I felt the same way I felt when you proposed to me. Like I can't believe you want this, too, but you just said it. That feeling just showed up and I knew what you were thinking about. Like. We're in a sleeping bag. But the bind is like... if a sleeping bag were made of all pillows from home. And when you look at me," he blinks his eyes open, "like you are now? And when you're touching me this close? It feels like I don't have to leave bed. Like it's where I belong and it's not just cotton pillows it's... down and silk and. I don't know??"

Sam nods anyway. It's a vague, encompassing feeling. And when they aren't touching, it recedes as if it's waiting for him in another room. But like this? He straight-up fucking feels the way it feels when Chuck calls him "husband." When he actually does it aloud? It's ecstasy.

Sam runs his hands _over his husband's body_

Chuck just breathes and blinks.

"Let's go. We'll calm down and go get your food and coffee and then I can trap you in the motel and just exist in our soft shell."

Chuck grins. "Now it just sounds like tortillas." He shifts. "Not that sleeping bags are the greatest, but I think it's more of a sleeping bag than a taco."

Sam straps on a frown. "I can't just walk around talking about our marriage taco?" he asks.

Chuck laughs and _want_ thrills down Sam's spine. "Marriage shell is better."

"Marriage _sleeping bag_ \- is that one we're gonna use?"

"Marriage bind does sound kinda old-school. Marriage sheets? Marriage bed? Marriage pillow fortress??"

"I've always wanted to have a marriage pillow fortress," Sam gushes. "I like that one. You're so good at words, crab."

"Husband - that's good enough, though, right? That name works for us?"

Honestly, that word is perfect. That word _gets him hard_. That word makes him wanna take his husband in this tent and in the car and in the bathroom at the coffee shop and in the car again and-

Chuck blows out a deep breath. "Wow, Sam," he says, seriously a little staggered.

Lust. He's pushing it. So he knows it's making it across the bind. He envisions a wave and he wants to push an ocean of love at Chuck.

Chuck pushes up from his prone position and climbs him to be held. "Remember all that time we didn't even know each other? I love you so fucking much. I'm always gonna be here, now. I don't want to go anymore."

Sam spreads his hands out on Chuck's back. "Good. I don't wanna let you go. I'm gonna find your shoes and pick you up and put you in the car. While I drive you're gonna tell me what you want for our honeymoon. I can't think of much but we're really creative when we think together."

He just says, "Pillow fort," into the skin of Sam's neck with this beautiful, overwhelming emotion.

«»

Being inside of Chuck while they share space in the bind is fucking excellent. Maybe not as earth-shattering as he'd hoped, but then he supposes it would be hard to get anything else done in a day if they could magically amplify how hard they orgasm.

Chuck keeps stopping to look in his eyes in awe. He just stops and slides his fingers into Sam's hair and his breath staggers until he's nearly crying and Sam holds him tight.

He just goddamn _wishes_ he knew what the fuck Chuck was thinking in those moments. It's not coming in clear. It's still a watermark and he wants big, bold letters in 3-D.

The second time he wakes Chuck up, naked in the center of the motel bed, he asks him how clear it is for him, cringing, figuring that Chuck keeps staring at him that way because he can see perfectly and Sam's just been knocked in the head too many times to feel the same thing.

"Clear?" Chuck thinks for a minute. "I don't know how to explain it. It's not a matter of clarity for me. It's just. I guess I'm not visually looking for it. But I'm definitely feeling it. I guess I always felt like I was in the corner of a big room with people all around and crowding together and drifting in groups. And now it's like. It's just a relief. You're there and we're in our own company and I don't care if the room is still crowded or if they all fuck off. It's almost like we just share a frequency." His breath staggers again. His eyes go watery, but he smiles wide. "It's such a fucking relief. To not be crowded out. To be alone and with you. To have you on my team. I'm just. I wasn't ready," he says all watery. "I agree with you. I mean, it feels like a shade of what it could be. But you just gave me this much and I'm fucking nuts about you."

Okay. Yes. Okay.

You know what? If it gave his husband what he needed to feel safe in his own head? To not feel alone? That's stunning. That's incredible and he'll take it. The bind already protects Sam from Castiel's intrusion. That's promising and that means that, at least on some level, the spell worked and the bind does what it's supposed to.

He'll take that and run with it.

The fact that it's their soft pillow fort is an unexpected, additional bonus. It's beautiful and comfortable and Sam wants it forever.

Maybe it will get softer. Maybe the images will get bolder.

He can wait to find out. He's got _forever_ with this brilliant man who found this spell to protect him.

Sam also has to remember that it's important to pace out any progress they would make communicating, mentally.

Chuck's in a fragile place, as far as he knows. Abused and crowded out and living in a hallway full of nightmares. It's fucking essential to take it easy on him. To use the bind to protect him right back, not stress him out.

He can be content with what they have. He can try to meet Chuck there as often as possible. Hold him and revel in the quiet and ease and softness.

Speaking of which, Chuck kind of likes Sam's idea of going to a luxury hotel to sleep in expensive sheets and screw around for a few days.

"But there's a convention in Boston. So let's go there," he says, contentedly brushing out Sam's wet hair.

"Like... a _convention?_ Like CreepyCon?"

"Nooo. FoodieCon. It's mostly for chefs and bakers and culinary artists and whatnot. I figure you can forge us some credentials to get us in. I think we should pose like we own a small, exclusive cooking school. Then we can get in and eat the foods of the future and see some people from tv shows!"

He seems genuinely excited about it.

"You can feed me and we can have gourmet coffee at the barista competition."

"Should have suspected the coffee thing," he narrows his eyes at Chuck.

"Also. _Sam_. You need to get a really nice hotel room. WITH. A really big _tub_."

Yeah. That, more than anything, sells him on the scheme.

«»

It's an amazing idea and, despite the short notice, he makes it work. It turns out that not even gourmet chefs can't afford the most expensive rooms left available during convention weekends.

But fake-rich faux-culinary-school-instructors with stolen credit cards certainly can.

Sam looks the convention up and books the room while Chuck's resting after an incredibly rare round three in bed. (They haven't done that since his birthday. Chuck is completely wiped out. Sam kind of is, too, but he wanted that for his Husband.)

The tub will be huge. There's a waterfall sort of thing above it that rains down into the bath. That's sexy and exciting. He should feed his hermit crab or crawl back into bed with him to feel the pillow-soft space build back up when they touch.

But something catches his eye.

There's another event at the same convention center in a few weeks. A homebuilder's show.

He tries to figure out if there are more of these things. They have different names, but they're all over. Shit. They can run back across the country and get to San Diego for the next one.

Fuck it.

He books a room at a bougie hotel right at the edge of the city that has tubs with jets.

Nice.

He'll have the whole week in between to keep Chuck quiet in the car and calm and out of the crowds.

Yeah. Convention-hopping. They can feed themselves well and then pick up ideas on how to decorate the house. Maybe learn about solar and security systems and whatever. But the decorating thing is what they've really been drawing a blank on.

After then, they can go back home. Check in with the family.

He starts having a minor breakdown about what an amazing idea this was. How Chuck thought of FoodieCon and Sam found the next piece of their journey.

What if this really works for the rest of his life?? What if he gets to keep this and they do amazing things?!

Chuck rattles a little in bed. Sits up, leaning on an elbow. "Are you okay?" he asks, soft and worried.

"Oh fuck, I'm so goddamn excited. I'm so fucking lucky I found you. Holy shit-- did I just wake you up??"

Chuck blinks. "I'm not sure."

Sam kinda thinks he did. He closes the laptop and turns back to the bed, shucks his jeans and climbs in over him.

"I think so, actually," Chuck is searching himself, lets Sam push him back into the sheets. "Something felt-- it was startling and. Exhilarating." He squints up at Sam.

He looks a little lost.

And suddenly Sam second-guesses the ENTIRE thing.

Chuck goes wide-eyed, grabs for Sam's wrists. "No! No, don't do that. Whatever that was, don't panic. Fuck, Sam. Look at me, okay? I think we're obviously going to need heaps and heaps of fucking practice at this so don't start freaking over things. And when you do? You have to tell me what they are. I can't tell by the shape of them. I can't- I can't _hear_ anything. I need- you have to talk to me," he begs.

Shit. "I just realized that we might have just opened the floodgates of my whole jumbled brain and it might spill over into your _overwhelmed_ brain and so every time I get confused by all this or-- excited, like I was just now? What if it starts chipping away at your fucking sanity? Maybe we need- maybe you have to block me out. Maybe you have to protect yourself and-"

"Okay!" Chuck waves him off. "Okay, come here," he requests. He draws Sam down to lay on him. "Deep breaths time. Time for deep breaths. Ready?"

So they do their old breathing thing again for a while.

They're still touching. But... like what Chuck said about being able to feel Sam touching him double-sided. Sam feels like he has access to that feeling. He could feel both sets of breath from the inside if he wanted, in addition to hearing Chuck's from the outside, up and down, resting on his chest.

Okay. So he located that. They can feel that.

"Can you. Can you kind of- when you feel things like that from me. Those strong, sudden things. I know you said it's not a matter of clarity. But. I've just been disappointed that it isn't bright and bold and blinking lights. I can recognize the pattern of your words far away and I think it's your thoughts. But that's just it - it feels washed out and far, far off. And it only really works right when I'm touching you."

Chuck rubs his thumb in slow circles over Sam's shoulder. "Yeah, I can understand that. Sam, I think I feel things that loud from you just because I'm... kinda used to hearing your inner voice. Not that I've had practice in the past few years. But your thought pattern isn't just familiar to me from hearing you speak. You understand? It's familiar to me from getting your whole existence unspooled in my own head. Okay? So it's nothing to worry about. If you see it that way, I'm just more practiced than you. So you'll see- it will- it will get 'bold' and 'bright,' okay? I mean. I can't promise. You sound fucking heartbroken about it, so I can't lie and say _I promise_ that will happen. But. Give yourself a break, maybe? It hasn't even been two days. Sammy, don't load this all up on yourself like it's a test you didn't study for. You're okay. There's no test. We have time. Let's breathe again," he puts his hand to Sam's chest and they breathe some more.

He isn't really inclined to let it go at the moment. He's been having Married Honeymoon Sex all day and things haven't gone all mind-blowing and new. He was excited to do magical things with Chuck. After months of reading and preparation and waiting he wanted it to be--

No. Sam absolutely has to drop it. Just because there's not some massive new supernatural element to their lovemaking doesn't mean it isn't incredible. Chuck has a bit of a better grip on it because he's been in Sam's head. That's all. It will get better. It can only grow and get better. Because he intends to do fucking relentless work on his marriage. They'll only get better at it. If nothing else, he should maybe take direction from Chuck if he's already a few steps ahead.

And Chuck just told him to let it go, stay calm, trust them.

He can trust them, together.

"We're really cool," he says out loud.

"Oh, totally," Chuck agrees, shifting to draw Sam between his legs. He groans. "One of my legs is kinda twinge-y. I think we may need to cool it for a while."

Sam strokes his thigh and decides he's gotta shake this annoyance. They can and will work on the bind. Right now he's supposed to be all about spoiling his new husband until he's soft and happy and completely carefree. "Show me where," Sam requests.

Chuck frowns, "Nah, it's weird."

"It's not supposed to hurt for me to be here. This is my favorite place. Show me," he repeats.

Chuck huffs and shifts to sit a little more. He presses at the junction of his hip and his leg and digs his thumb in.

Sam reaches up his shorts and massages there, himself, until Chuck moans. Even if they weren't touching, he could tell that's a good moan.

He wants to set records, today.

Sam moves to sit up over him and kiss him. Soothes and presses his fingers in turn, working the kink out of that spot.

He kisses up to Chuck's ear. "I'm gonna put my mouth there. Okay?"

"Don't know how that'll help," Chuck grumbles, doubtful.

Well. Sam has a wide jaw and the sudden desire to make Chuck come a fourth time today. He draws Chuck's boxers down. Scoots back. Plants his mouth there like he were eating him out. Adjusts his knee to draw his leg up so he can bite into his flesh, tongue at the tension and muscle there. Keeps using his thumbs to knead into the spot.

Chuck's breath starts to stagger.

His hands work back into Sam's hair.

Far-off impression of lust in the bind. Yes.

Sam moans.

"Alright fucker, I wasn't born yesterday," he accompanies it with a nervous laugh.

Sam's hand wanders to his balls, slow and sly.

Chuck falls back. "Holy fuck, don't do this to me."

Sam stops to take a breath and pauses, just cupping him-

But Chuck tosses his other leg over Sam's back.

"I can't fucking do it, Sam. But I know you- hey. You can bite me. Do you wanna leave marks on my leg?"

 _Yes._ That will do, yes. He can let his crab build his energy back up. He'll feed and hydrate him and make him sleep more and give him snacks in the car until he's drowsy. Then he'll have energy for the hotel in Boston.

He makes his marks small and light, but distinct. So Chuck only makes pleased little noises, not gasps. He does the same when Sam kisses over his soft dick, up to his other hip. Up to his belly.

He's pretty worn out, too. He is. Otherwise he would have asked to come on Chuck and Chuck would have said Sam could.

"Okay. How does it feel?"

Chuck sways his leg. "Good, I guess."

Hm. "I'll work on it again, later." He doesn't want to have to sleep without being tangled together, but if making room for Sam between his legs is making him hurt, they might have to work something else out while the muscle recovers. Maybe he needs to sleep between Sam's thighs for a few weeks.

"Let me know when it twinges again."

"It's not a big deal."

"Everything is a big deal. If I let you stay hurt, what kind of husband does that make me?"

Chuck grins. "You just want any excuse to hear yourself say that."

Sam doesn't deny it. "Wanna talk honeymoon plans?"

"Yeah. Can I have my underwear back?"

Sam doesn't give his boxers to him, he comes in close and pulls the covers over them, keeping him clothed only in himself. "Dinner. Yeah?"

Chuck shrugs.

"Coffee and ice cream."

"Yes. Perfect. What else?"

"Pack up. Drive to Boston."

Chuck frowns. "We still only have the clothes we started the rougarou hunt with."

"You wanna stop at the apartment or you wanna pick out new stuff?"

"Geeze. We gotta be careful with those cards if both of us are gonna be using fake credit, now."

Sam wavers on this. True, they shouldn't draw attention to their fraud, but some of it is supplemented very well by Charlie's additional schemes and fake accounts. And anything that keeps him from taking care of Chuck is bullshit, in Sam's opinion.

But. To make Chuck comfortable, he can be a little more careful for a while. And Chuck will feel even better if he's got more of his clothes from home. It's two hours out of the way. Not a bad sidetrack.

He gives little kisses. "Okay. You're right. So let's pack now and start driving after dinner. Wanna go eat on our property one more time? Then we head south."

"I can pick up my pillow," Chuck hugs him. "Cas fixed me, but the one side of my head has felt weird since that fed fucking-"

Sam holds him tighter. "I'm so fucking sorry."

"I know. What about Boston? You think we can get into the convention?"

"I'll get us in. Um. After that? Can we go to this home-and-garden convention in San Diego?"

"Okay. Sure."

"I got us another cool hotel. We'll get to try two different tubs."

"Nice. I'm ready for food when you're ready to give me my pants back."

Sam's a little hard, still, from trying to tempt him again, and having him naked and pressed there.

"Can I ask something?" Chuck says, before he can try for Married Sex just one more time.

He nods into Chuck's neck.

"I know you said you couldn't really think of anything but. Was there something you needed our honeymoon to be? Is there something you need in it to make you feel like it's real? I don't wanna leave this hanging out and risk that you don't feel like you just got married. Like how you had to tell the family we were engaged. I know you didn't mind that I wasn't especially romantic about it. But if you... I donno. Wanted to file paperwork or have pictures in a tux or write 'just married' on the car? Anything, Sam. I need you to feel like you got to the top of this mountain."

Sam inhales at his skin and considers. "I don't feel like... I don't really think I'm missing anything. I think we can go to these conventions and it will be different and interesting, like a vacation. As long as we don't end up hunting anything it will be cool. But. You're gonna have to kind of... let me be all over you. Am I allowed to do that?"

Chuck considers him. "Do you want me to tell you that you have permission to do... you know, pushy stuff?"

Sam shakes his head. "You're the one who decides to say the password. I just don't wanna act like we're indifferent business associates while we walk around all day. Unless it's something that makes you uncomfortable, I'm gonna walk around hanging on to you from now on. I feel like. I mean, now? After this? I feel like we passed the point where-- I just don't think I should have to play nice with society anymore. Like, if it makes you uncomfortable, that's one thing. But if people talk some Adam-and-Eve-not-Adam-and-Steve bullshit to us in public, I want to know, from you, that it's okay to crush their spirits and make them cry in front of their gym bros or girlfriends or children or whatever. Whatever type of asshole they are, I would rather make them uncomfortable than feel like we can't kiss in line for coffee or hold hands crossing the street."

"Mm." Chuck nods. "Okay."

"I mean that's like... from now on, though."

Chuck settles back. "You felt like you couldn't do that before. I'm sorry. I never thought to ask. But I get it. You're good. I would rather just walk away from assholes like that. But if it pisses you off enough to say something? Sam, you of all people have a right to expect better. You saved everybody. So you should get to have your marriage shaped however you want and none of the people you saved have a right to talk down to you like that."

Sam takes another deep inhale of him. "Do you know what a fucking relief it is to have someone exist at the center of me?"

He maybe doesn't even know what he means by that, but Chuck seems to. He nods. "Probably about as much of a relief as it is to have someone who can put your head in a shell."

Yeah, he gets it. They have to just sit and hold one another's ears in the quiet before they get dressed.

«»

This may be an abuse of power.

He's going to use the permission Chuck just gave him for evil, right off the bat.

The bigot downstairs who called them "fags" and who has been taunting Chuck when Sam isn't around - he works second shift. He's chilling out front right now, as Sam pulls into their parking lot.

He's debating whether he can just leave Chuck, sleeping and peaceful, in the passenger seat, or if he has to wake him up to go get the right clothes he wants for the next couple weeks.

Fuck it.

He does exactly what he wants, instead. He just got fucking married. He's gonna be the angry, married queer upstairs.

Sam leaves the bags for now. Opens the other door to unbuckle Chuck and haul him up, still sleeping. He just sighs and hangs on loose, barely awake. Sam carries him, gets up to the building and passes the redneck at a distance as he heads to the elevator.

Glares as he passes. Fucking dares him to talk.

He only sneers back, gives a disgusted look.

Sam takes Chuck up to their apartment. He jostles Chuck trying to get the lock, but doesn't put him down. Kisses the side of his head. "I get to carry you across the threshold again. Ready?"

He yawns. "Yeah, ready." Sam gets the door open and makes it to the couch to put him down. Pet his head. "Are we gonna sleep here?"

"Do you want to? I've got a few hours in me. I could drive. We could stop or we could switch."

He just makes an indecisive noise. Sam kisses him. "Lemme do the laundry and we'll leave again in the morning. I'll go get the bags. Want me to take you to bed?"

"Nah, let me think," he pushes at Sam's arm. "Get the laundry and I'll grab some of the stuff I want."

Sam closes the door tight, locks it again and everything. He places a bet with himself: Chuck will be flat asleep again when he gets back, conked out right where he sits.

It's sad and true but it's pretty funny.

Joe-Buddy-Jim-Bob or whatever the fuck his name is, is leaning, smoking against his truck when Sam makes it back down to the parking lot. His six-pack is in the bed of his truck; most are empties by now.

He's giving Sam the stink-eye again.

And he almost lets Sam make it back across to the car.

Almost.

His kid comes streaking out his open front door on a razor scooter and rounds another of the cars.

"Get back inside. Now. You hear me? There's fucking faggot child molesters in this building. You get back inside and watch your sister."

Sam waits for the kid to hustle back inside, soundless but pouting. He gets their bags from the trunk, slings two of them across himself and carries the other. Shuts the trunk and allows the fucker to blow smoke in his direction again when he walks past, for the umpteenth time.

He makes like he's heading for the stairs but snaps from his path and the first thing he grabs is the guy's goddamn windpipe. Crushes it so he wheezes.

His cigarette falls from his flailing hand and he tries to claw and lash out.

Sam slams his head against the rounded edge of his rear-view mirror, cracking it, including the plastic, and dazing him into compliance.

He's getting a minimum of air into his lungs.

"Your ignorance of crime statistics notwithstanding, I can assure you that I'd feel really great about brutalizing you more than anything else."

He jolts him so his head wobbles on his neck. Turns him and points at the light pole where there's a security camera perched. Charlie has footage looped on it so no one sees them coming or going. "Say hi to the fucking camera because I'm about to rupture one of your organs and, still, no one's gonna believe you didn't do it to yourself. You're already, what? Four beers deep? Good enough."

Sam lets go only long enough to aim and land a blow low on his back which sends him careening into the pavement. He gets one yelp out before Sam's boot is on his neck.

"So much as make eye contact with my husband ever again and you'll lose all custody including supervised visitation. Because, see," he casually readjusts the bags to crouch down. "The statistics on child molestation actually stand against _negligent, abusive fathers_ , not people of differing sexual orientations. And what will and will not suddenly appear in that camera footage can tell whatever story I want it to. Skip forward in time a little, re-record, and, with some color-washing, the cops see you lock your kids in that apartment for the whole weekend and show back up drunk on Sunday night."

He steps back for him to choke in oxygen, roll over, scramble away.

"Don't make a fucking sound."

He coughs trying to keep his mouth clamped shut, his hands over his throat, his face.

"Nod if you understand," Sam demands.

He nods.

Sam scoops the third bag back up from the pavement.  
Casually lopes back toward the stairs.

Chuck's not on the couch when he gets back.

Sam steps into the kitchen to wash his hands of that dirty bastard before he does anything else.

"Something happen?" Chuck asks, appearing in the bedroom doorway, blurry, but somehow awake.

Sam frowns, shakes his head. "Just the, uh, guy from downstairs. He blew that damn cigarette in my face again and-"

He stops himself. Changes tack. Because he's bound to his best friend who knows his lying face and said that he could defend him now that they're married.

"He said some trash about us. I didn't beat the hell out of him but he probably shit himself and he's definitely gonna have to hit the ER."

Chuck frowns. Considers. "Huh. You wash your hands?"

"Yeah," he waves as if to prove it.

"Okay. Start the laundry? There are a couple of those shirts I wanna get clean and take with. We can stay up until it needs to go in the dryer. Then we should sleep and get up early and drive. But I want you to sleep, I really do." He disappears back into the room. "I'm sorry, I know it's not romantic to be at home doing the laundry but we'll leave in seven, eight hours and be back in honeymoon mode," he says, while they both cross the apartment, getting stuff done.

"It's fine," Sam assures him, starts unloading the laundry bag into the washer. "You don't have to stay up. I can flop the laundry around."

Chuck doesn't respond.

Sam sets everything and kicks the other bags back by the door. He only removes a couple of the weapons, then he goes to find the tablet they leave here to double-check the real video versus the parking lot feed. He can back it up and see, in the corner of the frame, as the bigot crumples to the ground. Meanwhile, the night-time feed plays on with the occasional stray cat crossing the lot. Nothing but peace and quiet.

He considers for a moment. He's already got the necessary footage loop, one even more damning than what he threatened the guy with. He's been tempted to send it, before.

And he's experiencing that awful post-anger regret. It'll pull him under if he can't find enough justification in his violent actions and. Well. While defending Chuck should be reason enough, the guilt is going to plague him if he thinks the guy will take it out on his kids.

Sam's never seen him raise a hand to them. Other than the fact that he has no problem raising his kids to be as closed-minded as himself, Sam can't say he's got any proof that he's a bad influence in their lives or an asshole to them or even that he isn't a caring father.

He strikes Sam as an _indifferent_ father but.  
Sam also has to admit that his gauge is a little off when it comes to parents.

Bottom line? He doesn't want the kids to suffer because of what he just did. He watches the light from the open door cut out of the parking lot. Watches the asshole stumble to his truck, hunched and in pain, and get in. He drives away and his six pack slides out of the open tailgate, crashing to the pavement. There really has always been enough evidence for Sam to assume that a prick with a chainsmoking habit and a penchant for yelling at the neighbors to speak English in his country is probably in an apartment he can't legally afford and at least shouldn't have two days per week to influence children that young.

Sam takes a few minutes to splice his recent drinking in and make sure the video has a good storyline. He sends it to Charlie. **This is our neighbor in 1120. Can you please send this to his ex-wife's lawyer?**

She'll have no trouble at all making the connections there. And Charlie will be too tempted by the research not to peek in and see if the guy deserves his punishment. If she sees red flags, she'll fire the video off. If she doesn't see anything wrong, she'll send back a message asking Sam, **Hey, you sure?**

Satisfied, he washes his hands again and kicks off his shoes. Makes sure the door is locked and gets the light.

Chuck is under the covers already. Sam smiles and strips to his boxers and gets in to wrap around him.

Finds that he's in here _naked_.

Chuck turns over and presses against him.

Naked and _hard_.

Did he seriously sleep enough for this??

Sam climbs over him and kisses him deep.

"Hey," Chuck says when he has air. "Thanks for standing up for us."

"No problem," he says, breathless. "I can make you come again, if you want?" he offers, nearly pleads.

"Okay. You wanna do it before midnight so we set a record?"

"Yeah? Maybe. I don't like rushing unless you're tired, really. I wanna be slow and super-good," he insists, quiet earnestness just pouring out of him.

"However you feel, Sammy. Whatever feels best. We can always set records some other time. Any other day. We're married from now on. Like all the rest of our time."

They can try again for their record.  
Again, again, again. Any other day.

"Love you," Sam whispers. "Will you remind me of that tomorrow?"

"I'll never let you forget," Chuck promises, in all seriousness.

«»

On the way to Boston they stop at a fro-yo place for a date. "A date with boobs," Chuck says. It's one of those "breastaurant" places except they only do frozen yogurt.

"So they're in bikinis... serving ice cream?" Sam asks, to clarify.

Chuck nods.

"Don't they get cold?"

"I'm gonna bet they do," Chuck nods. "At first I was like 'what?' And then I was like, 'nipples must be the point of that.' Pun intended. Now I'm just wondering how skimpy they can really dress. I mean. It's gotta be just low-cut tops. Anything less would be awful business practices."

He's wrong.

They walk away from their date just kind of sorry for the employees who mostly get gawked at by adolescent boys and the dads who brought them.

Not that Sam can't appreciate boobs anymore, but that was just a really weird date with boobs.

"I mean they were _nice_ boobs," Chuck insists.

"Yeah but I felt like I was at a bar being patronized by middle-schoolers."

Chuck blows out a breath. "I donno, man, I kinda always felt like I was at a bar patronized by middle-schoolers even when I went to real bars. That's why I never went. I mean. Drunks are just grown up 7th-graders. No impulse control, staring open-mouthed at boobs or televisions, wild about free peanuts, 'you show me yours, I'll show you mine,' and occasionally someone rings a bell and you have to go home."

Huh. Kinda, yeah.

«»

The convention starts tomorrow, so they construct their story and fake identities in the car. They are private chefs instead of school owners. Sam just wants it to be less weird that they're married and a private business with private clients will give them reason enough not to have to give details when booth operators chat them up, trying to make bulk sales.

It gives them a great opportunity to write a love story. Chuck is from a family of chefs. Sam is from a family of bakers. Together they get every course of every meal covered.

"Oh gosh!!" Chuck can't reel it in on this one. He's in love with how in love they are, so excited he's fidgeting in his seat. "For our wedding reception, I made the cake and you made the entrees and they were awful!!"

"No way," Sam smiles. "Everything was great because we've spent so long learning from each other."

"Oh my goooood, Sam," he covers his eyes and curls into the seat.

"And we didn't save any of our cake because we sprang a food fight on our family and we completely ruined our tuxes."

"OH MY GOD!!"

His heart jumps when, for the first time, he feels a thrill of joy come across the bind. It's faint, like something you forget by the time you turn around to say it, but it's still there, even without Chuck touching him.

He can't stop smiling.

"Oh! We're gonna tell them we put off our honeymoon because of the convention. Because we decided to travel to the best restaurant we found there!" Chuck says.

"And I have a secret mission to buy you an amazing, industrial refrigerator while we're there, with all the bells and whistles."

"No fucking way!! I'm secretly shopping for a super-futuristic set of ovens for you!"

He can't imagine they can get geekier.

That is until they find the tub in their hotel room. And lounge in it dry, with their clothes on, before they even test the softness of the ultra-plush mattress.

«»

They brought their fed suits.

Well.

Chuck has never actually pretended to be a federal agent. He doesn't really think he can pull it off. In his case it's a "journalist" suit.

Well.

Chuck is allowed to call himself a journalist in real life. So maybe the quotation marks are unnecessary.

Anyway, they brought their suits only to hit the lobby and discover that chefs don't dress in suits amongst their own kind.

They look at each other, shrug, and go back up to the room to change.

In his Radiohead shirt and his hoodie, Chuck actually blends in better with the tattoos and wild hair than Sam does when they get to the convention hall.

"How we gonna do this?" he takes up Sam's hand. "I normally like to prioritize by section, but I don't know what all is here. We can navigate however you want, just don't lose me." He holds on tight.

"I won't. Let's, um," he flips over the email he printed out. "Okay, I got us third row for the knifework and mis-en-place competition. That's at 10. So let's find out where that is and then circle the outside to get the general layout."

"Okay. I held off on coffee-"

"I know, me too. They've gotta have some primo shit here somewhere."

They march forth.

The competition is being held on a big stage, hard to miss once they get over that way. They find that vendors have full food trucks set up around the edges while the whole middle of the floor is for booths and big, stainless-steel machines that must do amazing things like freeze stuff in an instant or sanitize dishes in seconds.

They find a place selling Bulletproof Coffee.

Sam's excited. He's only ever heard of it, never actually come across it being served.

Chuck hesitates.

He tugs on his hand. "Figured a coffee aficionado would be interested?" he nods at the booth.

Chuck shrugs. "I'm hardly an aficionado, and I mean. Yeah. But. Am I willing to hork down coffee full of _butter and coconut oil_ , which may or may not make a wreck of my digestive system, _on my honeymoon??_ "

Very valid point.

They find some Cuban coffee, instead, and their tiny cups have them physically buzzing by the time they have to settle in to watch the competition.

"Okay," Chuck comes close to his ear after everyone's introduced and before the first round. "I'm betting on the woman with the pink hair to win. Who do you got?"

"Fuck you, the bald guy with the knives tatted on the back of his head. I bet you anything he wins."

"You're on. This round or the whole shebang?"

Sam considers this. He hesitates, really, but doesn't want his tell to slip. He is sure his guy will be the best at the knifework - why get that monstrosity fucking tattooed on the back of your skull if you have anything to doubt? But what if that's his forté and nothing else is? Maybe he just talks a big game.

"First round. What do I win when pink-hair loses?"

Chuck shrugs, turns his eyes back to the stage. "We'll start off with blowjobs."

"Deal." Not that losing would be a punishment to either of them.

Sam's guy takes round one.

"I'll collect on the way to San Diego," Sam says at his ear, kisses it and falls back.

"My lady's taking the mise-en-place round, though," Chuck insists. "Dead to rights. When she wins, I don't have to talk to any of the vendors all day. You do all the talking and I just pretend I don't speak English."

"What the hell am I supposed to speak to you to prove it? Latin?"

Chuck shrugs. "Or Enochian."

"I don't speak conversational Enochian."

Chuck only shrugs again. "That'll be your problem."

"When the Latino guy wins, I get to eat any meal I want in bed over the next month," he nods. "Food in bed. How about that shit."

"No! You can't- you- you can't switch horses," he argues.

"You just don't wanna lose."

"You can't switch- no. You know what? Fine. You're not winning anyway." He pushes Sam back to his own seat.

Neither of their chefs win, but Chuck's lady takes second for the second time and she's accumulated the most points.

"Round three, my lady takes it and I don't have to talk to the vendors. When she wins by points overall, we're dying blue streaks into your hair."

Holy fuck, he's not playing around.

Sam switches back while the surprise third round is being set up. It looks like whole animals so he's guessing it's a butchering contest and knifework will prevail again. "When my bald guy wins this round, we're having sex on the hotel roof."

"Holy shit, Sam."

"When he wins the whole competition by points, you're telling me the most incriminating, embarrassing shit you remember about Dean so I have the blackest possible blackmail material."

"Oh, you're on you flip-flopping candy-ass."

"Scaredy-cat little punk, you're not coming NEAR my hair with fucking _dye_."

"We'll see," Chuck shoves him back into his seat again.

Pink Hair takes it.

It's not just about butchering the meat off the bone, it's also about removing the organs neatly for other uses, tying the chicken up properly for roasting, and scaling and deboning a fish.

She flies through everything that the other people on the stage struggle with, fish scales flying everywhere. And she gets more points for having the cleanest knifework and not missing pin bones.

Sam deflates. "Please not blue."

"Oh he calls me a scaredy-cat and now it's all 'please not blue'," Chuck mocks him. He gets up and claps and whistles for the chef with the pink hair with the rest of the crowd.

They let half the area drain back out into the convention hall, then Chuck stands to start filing out of the aisle.

He can't do blue. "Please not blue." He stays in his seat, tugs on Chuck's hand, refuses to move. "Anything but blue."

"Purple and pink," Chuck smirks down at him.

Sam frowns and goes all pathetic. "You don't have to say anything to any of the vendors all weekend. You don't even have to fake another language," he wheedles. Tugs at him more.

"Ugh." Chuck drops back to his seat. "Red streaks."

" _Chuck._

"Black or blond."

"Please don't. Please?"

It doesn't work. "I'm not calling off our bets."

No, but, he _really, really_ doesn't wanna do this.

"You were confident as hell! I even let you switch and you couldn't win! I picked the fucking winner! I win. I should get something for that!"

Sam cringes and... he just... he _can't_.

"Wow. Okay. Remind me not to make bets with you again. And that is some straight-up younger-sibling bullshit, I'll have you know. You were all for it. You would have made me have sex on a fucking roof."

"Not while it's still cold outside-"

"Bull. Shit."

"Chuck. Please. I wasn't taking it seriously," he insists.

"Fine! Fine. You're no fun. I just want that known." Chuck gets up to leave their row.

Sam chases after him. "I'm sorry."

" _Remember something truly traumatic about my brother, Chuck,_ " he pulls out his imitation again. "But, oh, no, nevermind, I wasn't really betting on anything."

Oh my god. "Fine! Blue streaks it is!!"

"Nope. Don't worry about it," Chuck troops on into the crowds ahead of him.

No no no no.

He grabs Chuck and pulls him back into an empty row of seats. Covers his ears.

They stand and wait for most the people to file out. Then Sam keeps standing there until Chuck's glare dissolves.

Sam lets go of his ears to touch his hips and press their heads together. "I'm sorry."

"Sam." Chuck hesitates. Resolves himself. "Forget about it. I'm sorry. All bets off. We'll be nicer about it next time. That was dumb of both of us."

Sam closes his eyes and wraps around him. "No it wasn't. It was fun. I shouldn't have said that thing about Dean. That wasn't cool. I just. I know it's not actually a big deal. I know it washes out, eventually. But. My hair is just."

"I know. You could live a litt-" he stops himself. "No. That was. No. Bets off. That was dumb."

Sam breathes against him and they're close and the bind has sort of a twitch to it that smacks of annoyance.

He's annoying Chuck because he won't even try. Because he's too sensitive about his fucking hair when he knows damn well that he can get it to wash out reasonably fast. It's hair. It's not the end of the world. He plays these games just fine with his brother and even Cas but he's pretending like he wasn't willing to take the game seriously when Chuck just--

He just REALLY doesn't want to-

Sam sighs.

"Let's go wander," Chuck is suddenly extremely gentle, touching Sam's neck, frowning.

"Red. I'll do red. You won, I'll do red."

"Okay," Chuck shakes his head because he's not actually gonna make him do it.

"I will."

"I would never make you do something you didn't want to do to your own body, Sam," and the bind backs this up. A honey-slow flow of _promise_ and _care_.

Oh, fuck.

"I was gonna ask you to blow me while I was driving so I could see what it was like."

"Yeah, I figured that's what that meant."

"You never have to talk to anybody you don't want to. I'll do 100% of the talking even if the bets are off, you know I will."

"Having free samples shoved in my face makes me nervous."

"And I know you forgot that when you asked to come here. It's fine. A few streaks of color aren't gonna kill me."

Chuck sighs. "No one will take you seriously on cases. I forgot that you can't have your hair dyed and look like a Special Agent."

You know what? Yeah, he can.

He backs off. Holds his hand out.

When Chuck's hand folds into his, he can't hear or see words through the bind, but he feels like Chuck is howling his love at the top of his voice.

He tingles. He goes warm all over. "I love you," Sam says aloud for the both of them. "Lemme feed you."

They decide to go row-by-row. They walk slowly and browse at leisure because most of the people manning the booths are heavily engaged in trying to get the ball rolling strong. They're chatting up the people who did arrive in suits and who clearly came with a purpose.

Sam snags samples from a shiny black booth bedecked with plants.

There are little herbs and greens in each cup.

They eat a purple plant first.

"It tastes like cherries, holy shit."

It really does. This is some fucking futuristic food science. They eat a green leaf that tastes like- "Cotton candy??"

"Right?" Chuck chews. "What the fuck?"

"The full flat leaf there," a guy in a polo shirt stops by them. "Try that one next."

Sam shrugs and digs it out of the cup.

"Just warning you, it will numb your lips entirely."

They look to each other and pop it at the same time.

"I don't know what I was expecting," Chuck shakes his head.

Yeah. Just Sam's lips have gone numb. It lasts a good half minute.

"The final one," the representative explains, "tastes like potato chips. Salt and all."

"Okay," Chuck says, after. "Teach us science."

"Yes," Sam agrees.

The guy grins and brings them over to some plants.

They learn a lot more than they were expecting to. At least Sam does. And when Chuck holds his hand, Sam can feel flashes of his satisfaction.

They don't need to eat a real meal for lunch. Between wandering and learning, they eat a lot of samples. But one of the food trucks along the outside caught Sam's eye.

He brings Chuck over when he starts dragging a little. It will be time to go soon. He's worn out from walking for so long. "This makes it a date," they walk up to stand in line and Sam kisses his cheek. "Happy honeymoon, sweetheart."

"Thanks. Are you learning? Are you happy?"

"Oh, totally. This has been exciting. But I think it's enough for today, okay? I wanna be alone with you in the quiet for the rest of the day. We'll come back tomorrow."

Chuck nods and steps to the side to read the list of what's on offer.

This food truck sells artisan ice pops.

"Masala chai," he decides, stepping back. "What about you?"

"Hmm... carrot-citrus. But I wanna try yours."

"And we can do different ones tomorrow."

"Definitely."

They eat their popsicles on the long walk to their car. They trade at one point and Chuck kinda doesn't want his back. "Carrot-citrus. Who woulda thought??"

Sam drives them toward their hotel, then decides, fuck it, turns towards the less dense part of town in search of a convenience store.

Chuck doesn't question it, just frowns. He's noticed that Chuck doesn't trust his own sense of direction so he probably wouldn't ask if they were going the wrong way.

He stops at a shopping center and comes around to get Chuck's door.

They head to the healthcare section because he wants to grab Pepto pills or something, in case any of the food ends up bothering Chuck's stomach.

Chuck frowns at him. "My tummy appreciates that, thanks."

"Yeah, I figured." He looks around. "I don't see your sinus pills. Do you?"

Chuck snags two boxes off the shelf. He could find them anywhere.

Sam wanders to find the vitamins but theirs are all crappy store-brand and he turns toward the beauty aisles.

Comes to stop in front of the hair dye.

"Sam. No. We talked about this- just no." He comes to grab Sam's hand and yank at him.

"Look at it this way," he explains. "We'll still be on our honeymoon for a couple weeks. Then we'll probably go work on the house for a couple more. By then I'll have it faded out really well. It won't disappear for a few months, but if it really bugs me, or people laugh me off the case, I'll just dye my own color back over it. Look, I won't even bleach it first, and-"

Chuck suddenly looks really wiped out. "Let's go to the hotel. It's only 2:30, we have plenty of time for a nap. You don't wanna do this and my wedding present to myself will basically be to get bummed out every time I look at you, knowing what a dick I am to the guy who very kindly agreed to marry my dumb ass."

Sam grabs a box of Charlie-red off the shelf.

Chuck snaps it out of his hand. "Bet's off! I said I was sorry!"

Sam goes for a box of black.

Chuck yanks his own hand out of Sam's. "Please don't do this, I'm sorry, I don't _EVER_ want to do this to you," he insists.

"I can live a little, Chuck, it's not a big-"

"I will literally fucking cry of you don't drop this. If I make you do something to yourself that you don't want to."

Fuck.  
Sam feels like a total shit.

If it were Dean he bet against, he would have been held to the terms and laughed at for pouting in the first place. He--

Sam stares at the shelf.

Wait.  
Why _is_ Chuck letting him off the hook for this bet?

Because he does too good conning him into thinking he can't hold something over on him?

Maybe the better question is: Why didn't Dean ever let Sam off the hook for a bet?

Chuck steps in front of him and takes the second box of dye from his hand to dump it back on the shelf.

He looks seriously upset.

Chuck cares. That's why. Chuck would never do anything to hurt or so much as embarrass him.

Because Sam's hair is his own and when Dean talks about cutting it, Chuck gets pissed.

Dazed, Sam presses him against the shelf, places their stuff to the side, and attacks his mouth.

They just got married.  
They're on their honeymoon.

If Sam ever wanted to dye his hair a riot of orange and pink and style it into a foot-tall mohawk, Chuck would be okay with it.

But he will never let anyone else tell Sam what to do with his body. Chuck won't even do it himself.

It may be a weird moment to think of it, but on the way to San Diego--

He just hasn't talked to Mom in a long time.

He's told her about Chuck but he hasn't really told her he got himself a keeper.

Maybe that's not a honeymoon activity, either. Maybe some other time.

Chuck doesn't pray, but he won't laugh. And Sam is suddenly kind of devastated that he found someone who's gonna take his protection so seriously.

Chuck needs to back off for breath before he does. "Hey. Take me back to the hotel. Please take me home and touch me." He pushes his hands into Sam's hair. Someone else comes down the aisle and they ignore them.

"Okay."

"Don't talk about hair dye anymore."

"I'm gonna do it another time."

"Sam, _please_ -"

"Red isn't bad and maybe I wanna try it. You already talked to some of the vendors today so the bets are moot anyhow. Chuck, I'm the one choosing this now."

"Your hair is so _beautiful_ , though. You don't have to change anything."

"Maybe I wanna try new things, though! I got married. I'm building a house. I'm gonna start teaching. I'm going to conventions. I'm learning stuff. Maybe I should honor my queen, huh? Maybe I should wear her colors."

Chuck frowns at him. "You think we both should?"

"Shit, maybe we _all_ should." He kisses the side of Chuck's head. "You know I'm careful with my hair. I've read up on it before and I'll get the good stuff - I'll order professional things online. You'll try it with me?

Chuck nods.

"And you'll have to help me with mine, okay? We'll do some of your curly bits," he tugs at a chunk of Chuck's hair.

Chuck seems indecisive for a moment longer.

"Come on. Let's check out. I'm excited about this, hermit crab. It's a good idea. We'll do it after we get home."

Chuck takes a breath. "Okay."

And here's the thing: Sam isn't just saying this so Chuck will forget about the bets. He isn't saying this just to make him smile again. He's saying this because they deserve change and excitement in their lives. Even if it just means a little color now and then.

Maybe they should wear their queen's colors. Maybe Sam should decorate his significant other in every way he can. Maybe he'll buy shirts with logos for himself, finally - campaigns he supports and bands he likes and places they've visited. Sam doesn't have to stay below the radar anymore, generic and unnoticed. Life is gonna be so different in his new orbit. So beautiful.

That deserves a little color.

Back in the room, they nap, they make love, they lounge for a while.

Sam misses his brother a little bit during dinner. But that's okay. They're never gonna disappear from each other's lives. And this isn't like setting timers. This is just his honeymoon. This is alone-time that Sam and Chuck deserve between traveling together and being in the quiet, shifting the soft walls of their pillow fort to feel closer.

He can miss Dean. And he can learn how to be nearer to somebody else. Someone who has a different set of standards when it comes to their relationship.

Sam remembers Cas touching his head. Remembers there wasn't even a brush of intrusion - not even a suspicious doubt crossed his mind.

Castiel simply couldn't get in.  
If Chuck had his way, not even dye would stain Sam unless he asked for it.

He's staring. For once, Chuck is staring back. They have the shades and curtains open. The city lights from the side and below filter in a nice blue glow.

"I think I need you to say that word so I can say something."

"Don't have to do it that way," Chuck is thumbing at his collar bone. Sam knows something must betray him - Chuck says it anyway if it will make Sam easier about it: "Oxford?"

"I would die for you."

"Yeah, I'd prefer if you didn't. That's no good at all. Gimme something better."

"I'd say _yes_ for you."

"See, that's acceptable. Because you already did. Twice. You said it when I asked and you said it for the bind. And I'm grateful. But the most beautiful thing about Sam Winchester is Sam Winchester being Sam Winchester. So if you mean you'd say it to _somebody else_ for me? _Un_ acceptable. Try again."

"Oh. Maybe I didn't understand the box I was opening here," he smiles.

"You know what kind of _everything_ you can give to me?" Chuck asks.

"Anything. Tell me what."

"You can give me all these words even if I have to tell you they're not the right ones."

"You are the expert, after all," Sam points out.

"Listen, grasshopper, you're not doing so bad yourself. I just need to point you in the right direction sometimes. So, say you wanna tell me that you want to give me the world, but you're Sam Winchester, so, as you do, you say, 'I'd die for you,' or 'I'd say yes for you,' and that's not what your husband wants. Think of what I've wanted in the past, instead."

"Naps. Coffee. Nice mattresses. You like to learn stuff. You like quiet places," Sam thinks. "You like different things sometimes. You like surprises."

"You can give me chances. Infinite chances. 'Cause I feel like I might fuck up sometimes, so you're gonna have to-"

"All the rest of my days," Sam concludes. "I can let you change your mind on what flavors you like every day so I can give you all the chances in the world. I've extended more to people less deserving, I guess."

Chuck frowns. "You kinda have. So just tell me if I ask too much."

"Hasn't happened yet," he sighs and stretches to wrap around him. "We can take chances together," he offers.

"That'll work. So what else did you wanna-"

"I don't want to feel alone again and I donno. Maybe _I_ should have said 'Oxford' so _you'd_ tell me some things."

"You only need to tell me you want me to say something. I'll say it." He scoops Sam's head up. "You won't be alone again. And if you _feel_ alone at any point when you're with me, it's my job to fix that. So you've gotta tell me. I don't wanna fuck up that bad because you truly don't ask for much, Sam."

Sam thinks in the quiet for a while, wishing he could just stop. Could just dump these insecurities elsewhere and didn't have to make Chuck lecture him back to happiness all the time. "Do you ever get sick of this shit?"

"If you're referring to us whispering in the dark about how fucking gone we are on each other, then, no."

Oh.  
Well.  
That pretty much answers all his questions.

«»

Saturday is when the convention really pops off. There are more contests and major demonstrations. Give-a-ways and prizes and more free food than they can really consume.

Free booze, too, not that it's necessary, as some of the chefs and their ilk arrive around noon already partying. Security doesn't seem to do much to stem the flow of flasks into the convention hall.

Chuck looks on fondly as they bump into tables and groups and howl at one another with a sort of look like, _aww, my people_ , and even he is wearing a paper chef's hat by the time they sit down for the barista thing.

It's more of a showcase than a real qualifying round and overhead cameras slide around on rails to show their work on giant screens.

"Everything smells like coffee and nothing hurts," Chuck sinks, contented, into his chair and claps lazily when they make impressive designs on the tops of lattes.

Sam inquires with some seriousness into the appliances. He gathers pamphlets and information and takes notes because Dean will take it seriously when he's planning out the kitchen.

And Sam wouldn't be mad about finding a truly gigantic refrigerator in his house, to be honest.

He chats at a booth with a guy named Eli, spinning out their honeymoon story just for shits and grins and because Chuck blushes and sighs and says "ohhh my god" when Eli says they look amazing together and talks about how dead-cute it is that they're a chef/baker combo in one.

Eli's head chef comes by, directing his servers out onto the floor with trays of amuse-bouche and they're encouraged to take them.

They're also fawned over by some of the ladies they work with.

And then wished well on their little culinary adventure by the head chef when Eli sends him over. 

"You know what that tasted like, Sam?"

"Salmon with-"

"Ham. It tasted like total ham."

Sam only hangs off his shoulders and brags about him for the rest of the day.

Chuck refuses to try something with squid in it. They learn about eating mold and dandelions and all sorts of off-the-wall things. Sam's ticket wins a door prize for a gift basket filled with gourmet cookies.

He doesn't complain, but when Chuck starts lagging behind his usual short-legged pace, Sam sits him next to the wall with their free stuff. He gets in line and gets the second round of popsicles. Ginger-lemonade for Chuck and Vietnamese coffee for himself. They switch off to share and enjoy both. Sam taps his empty stick against his lips, after and says, "That was great. Really. But I think I like my coffee this way," he pulls Chuck into a kiss.

"Fuck," Chuck says, suddenly wide-eyed. "I didn't mean it when I called you a ham before. You can be as dorky about us as you wanna be."

Yeah, he knew Chuck would see things his way.

«»

Sam wakes up early. It's another hour or so before Chuck will be functional, so he might as well use the hotel gym. After all, it has been almost a week since he's exercised in any capacity except sex.

He moves to creep off the mattress quietly, but Chuck flails a hand out to find him, blind but grasping. Still not cracking his eyes open.

Sam catches his hand and kisses his fingers. "Go back to sleep. Keep sleeping."

Chuck kind of snorts a big breath and opens his eyes. Sam tries to let his hand go, but he clings. Tugs.

"You won't even miss me," Sam whispers. "It'll be-"

"Get the fuck back here," he grates, utterly worn but serious.

Sam blinks. Okay.

Gets back in with the intention of holding Chuck until he drops off again, but when he's laid out and drawing him close, Chuck shucks his underwear off and shakes his hands loose. Climbs onto Sam, pulls down his shorts almost like an afterthought and then starts rocking against him.

"Uh. O-okay," Sam stutters.

Chuck rolls his hips against him, shimmies up so his ass is rocking against Sam's dick and...

Okay. Yeah. Okay.

He reaches over Sam to the headboard and heaves a breath. Pauses and blinks, seems to refocus. He draws one of Sam's hands to his hip. Then starts going again.

He makes a frustrated little noise after a moment so-

Right. Sam's got a job here. He puts both hands to his hips. Helps him.

Chuck closes his eyes and lets his head roll back. _Moans_.

Sam blinks and.

Well, he was getting hard before but. That pretty well set him up right.

Chuck pauses to spread his knees and settle down closer.

Okay! Right.

Sam slams his hand into the corner of the bedside table stretching for the lube. "Ow."

"Y'okay?" Chuck doesn't open his eyes.

Sam mumbles something affirmative and just gets the lube on his fingers and... himself and the sheets. And.

Finally gets enough in the right place to press his fingers into Chuck.

He starts pumping faster so Sam figures he's getting that right, even if Chuck's not touching him, both hands stretched up to the headboard now.

Fuck. Is he not gonna touch him?

Sam tries not to do too hurried a job slicking them up. Goes to handle Chuck's hips again. "Gotta lean back," he tries to draw Chuck back onto his cock. Chuck still won't touch him.

He gets Chuck settled back onto himself but-

He tugs at his elbows and can't get him to move his arms down.

Chuck leans over him now, driving himself back on Sam and it's.  
Holy fuck

So good. So slick and him ramping up the speed and... shuddering on top of him but-

He reaches up, tries to pry Chuck's hands off. Chuck yanks them away, digs his hands into the pillows.

Really??

Fine. Fucking fine.

Sam takes his hips and _drives_ up into him. Destabilizes him, makes him need a better grip.

His hands go up to the headboard again.

God. Fucking. Dammnit.

Sam sits up and Chuck needs to sit back and move his knees and Sam doesn't pull out to let him get settled so he has to flail-

And still, he doesn't use Sam's shoulders to stabilize himself. He'd rather fall and stretch back and lean out and.

Wow.  
Fuck this.

Sam pushes him back to power into him. To lay him out under himself and make him lose his grip in the sheets and he starts shouting because Sam's _aiming_ and he won't let go of the fucking covers.

 _Fuck you_ , Sam pulls out and sits up, towering above him, catching his breath.

Chuck's laid out, dazed, not seeming to get it.

Sam grabs his left hand, pries it out of its grip.  
Sam grabs his right hand, pries it out of its grip.

He pulls Chuck's hands to the backs of his own thighs because when he _fucks back inside him_ , he's gonna feel Sam _flex_. Feel the power he's _supposed to be using_ to keep a grip and stabilize his life and-

Sam lines himself up and presses in, leans over him to watch Chuck's eyes when he-  
_Thrusts hard_ , jolting him down the mattress a little.

Chuck gives a wordless shout. Grabs the backs of his thighs and, yeah, yes, this. This feels right. Chuck finally touching him, them finally kissing.

Sam does it again. Again. Fucking deliberately rocks him so he has to hold on to the same force that's driving into him.

Chuck shouts and gasps, his head lolls around and it makes Sam want to dive for his neck.

He decides to hold Chuck down, just hammer into him. And does until Chuck loses his grasp.

Sam very kindly and gently and obligingly pulls Chuck's hands up to kiss his palms. Draws one to his shoulder and one to his neck.

Chuck shivers, a vibration run through him while Sam's still buried within.

Yeah, okay.

He leans over Chuck, one long arm helping him tower there. Wraps his other hand around Chuck and jerks him hard as he builds a rhythm again.

"Sam! God! Sam!" he finally fucking articulates before coming hard, Sam's hand still rapid on him until Chuck starts digging his fingers into his shoulders, lacking the words to beg him to stop.

Sam lets go, holds him down by the belly with his sticky hand and drives into him fast until he can't fucking stand it, Chuck's post-orgasm bliss holding the softness of the bind taut, quiet, maybe with the way he sometimes loses his hearing after, and ready to spill light and life when Sam finally--

Pulls out and unloads to the exact image he wanted - coming across the streaks already on Chuck's belly, the grip on him going slack and scrabbling, Chuck trying to wrap his arms around him rather than let go.

Sam drops to breathe into his neck, finally feeling the last of the haze drop off, away from the bind. The soft-comfy fog falling away and a satisfied _curl_ rising. He can't tell if it's from himself or Chuck.

Chuck whines softly.

"Good morning, Sweetheart."

He does it again.

"What's up, Chuck? You okay?"

"Pull my leg over you, I'm too tired to do it."

Sam reaches back and pulls his leg up and settles down close, despite the mess. He shifts to the side slightly so he won't be crushing him.

"You were gonna leave. You can leave, now, but not before you say 'good morning.' You can't just go exercise on our honeymoon without saying something."

Sam sighs. "Guilty. I'll wake you up next time."

"Maybe I want you to leave me here and just come back around and fuck me whenever you want."

Sam reaches down to his ass and to where he's most definitely going to be well-used, well-loved because-

He could do that. Sam could just prop him up in bed with food and television and nest Chuck down carefully after he gets back and fucks him again. He could come in here with a washcloth and wipe him down and keep him clean and care for him and leave him here while he goes to buy food and presents and rip off cars and rob banks to give him everything he fucking deserves.

"Come here," Sam tips his head up to kiss him. "This is the last day of the convention, you okay with skipping out?"

"Unless there was something left you wanted to try. Sam?"

"Mm?"

Chuck draws three fingers down each side of Sam's face. "Feel like going scruffy for a while?"

He shrugs, "I was kinda thinking of letting it go for this couple weeks. That okay?"

"Of course. It's your face. I haven't seen you really bearded up ever."

He closes his eyes and leans and Chuck holds him. Touches his face, his eyelids, his hair, his dented ear.

Breakfast. Huge and indulgent. Caffeine, because Chuck woke up and rolled over and rode him before he even had a proper chance to wake up.

Room service, unfortunately, is just never a good idea for them. He has no idea what kind of place might do take-out breakfast, if any.

So he goes for a washcloth and pulls a cleaner sheet up from the end of the bed. After he presses kisses to Chuck until he's dozing again, Sam gets dressed and heads for the concierge desk instead of the gym. The lady there directs him to a breakfast place and a pastry shop and he chooses the pastry shop because it's Sunday morning and the streets are dead and it's easy to get to, despite the distance.

«»

Chuck doesn't wake up when he gets back with the bags. And the light in the room and the way he's thrown across the sheets. It's just beautiful.

Sam's not even a week married and he's carrying coffee for his husband and struck that he gets to do this for the rest of his life. He's never going to be alone, and, far off, further than he can reach (so far) there is a pinpoint of steady life, surety and proof that he's _connected_ to someone and Chuck is alive. Even down the street, even four blocks over, he still knew.

He wonders if he'll come to hear Chuck's dreams play out when he's upstairs napping and Sam's out in the workshop sharpening blades.

He wonders what it will be like if Chuck twigs to a brilliant idea in the middle of writing and Sam's teaching one of the kids Latin. He wants to feel that.

He wants to see _this_ every day, forever.

Chuck said no naked pictures, ever. The sheets are really low on his hips but he is covered, and maybe this counts as naked, but he's too beautiful for Sam not to carefully get his knees up on the bed and look up over him and take a picture.

He sits back and sends it directly to his cloud account.

Sam shifts to lie next to him and take another picture, Chuck's head rested on the super-plush pillows, his hand thrown over his own belly, the other dug under the pillows, the light, unobstructed by other buildings, streaming in the far windows. Glinting off his ring.

Then Sam puts his phone back in his pocket.

He pets his hand down Chuck's side until he wakes up.

"Tell me I can keep you here and let you eat in bed."

"I don't think we'll get ants all the way up in the Grand Suite. It's fine."

"Okay. Your morning sports show is on in a few minutes."

Chuck considers this, then waves his hand. "No tv right now."

"I got you breakfast," Sam grins. "I got you cool stuff."

Chuck smiles back at him, ready and easy. "Stuff with powdered sugar?"

"Yeah. Ready?"

Sticky buns and scones. Raspberry-ginger muffins because Chuck is heavy into ginger this week. Coffee cake and coffee and, yes, little tarts with glistening fruit slices and powdered sugar.

Chuck laughs, half-way through trying everything and passing each piece back and forth between them.

"What?" Sam grins.

"This is the exact opposite of exercising. I'm so bad for your health."

"I disagree," Sam licks cinnamon off his thumb. "I also plan on exercising all day." He licks cinnamon off _Chuck's_ thumb.

«»

Chuck stretches his arms out of the water and to either side. "This has been a good bathtub."

Yeah, they've soaked in it for two hours each day they've been here.

"I don't know what it is with the shape, though, that I can't get a good grip," Sam has to complain a little. Tub sex is hard enough without the tub fighting him back.

Chuck rubs his arms and settles against him, again. "Remember that for when you're shopping. Is the next one a different shape? In San Diego?"

"I don't know. We'll see. We'll tub-travel and take notes."

"This one is maybe too oval," he pats Sam's hand, splishing. "Or maybe you're too angular."

Sam sighs and stretches a little, then huddles back into him. "It's going cold. We have a couple more hours until the convention wraps up. We can try two more popsicles and see if they've got any of those cool spatulas left at that one booth."

Chuck looks over his shoulder to smile at him. "You know that lady on the appliance platform told on you? When I said I was looking at ovens for you she said, 'Oh! Your husband is looking at fridges for you! Isn't that just the sweetest?'" he affects a bad Jersey accent.

"She fucking ruined my surprise!"

"Yeah, but we're _the sweetest_ , my big, cushy, murderous maniac," he lets his head drop to Sam's shoulder.

In the other room, Sam's phone pings for the first time in days. "Must be noon," he laughs.

"He's probably been twitching for two days," Chuck shakes his head. "I need to soap you up and rinse you off. You need to do that for me. Then we can get up and out. We can get popsicles and come back and..." he nods, trails off.

Sam calls his brother while they're walking from the car, back into the convention center.

"Sammy!!" he sounds excited.

Sam laughs. "Hey. How is everybody?"

"Fine, fine. I need a status report. I mean. Not. I mean. You know. I don't want details. I just wanna know that you're both alive and functioning."

"All limbs intact. We're heading to lunch. How about you?"

"Roughing it," he reports proudly. "There's an annual Halloween event they hold in the woods here, but the real haunting takes place over the next three days. We're gonna nab this sucker. I got Aiden chopping the fucking wood and the girls are teaching each other how to fish- like, I donno. Krissy's done it some and Josie went on boats with her dad and Claire was a Girl Scout for three years or something. Anyway. Tents. The great outdoors."

"You hate that shit."

"I HATE this shit. But, brother mine, I'm making the best of it. I'm gonna fight off a bear and sleep under the stars and tend to the fire and slay the goddamn Blair Witch herself."

Sam looks down at Chuck to grab his hand and get on an escalator. "Um. There's an actual Blair Witch or-?"

"Not the actual Blair Witch but just _give me this_ , Sammy. We're gonna un-haunt the hell out of these woods."

That sounds like a terrible idea. "Well. Have fun?"

"Darn tootin'."

"Call if you get into trouble or if you burn the woods down or if you get a tick and start freaking out about it."

"Lyme Disease is not a joke, Sam."

"You sounded like Cas saying that, just now."

Dean grumbles.  
Uh-oh.

"Um. And how is he?"

"Uh. 'Touching creation' or something. He keeps wandering off to feel the moss and stuff. He objected to the girls catching fish so he stomped off and he came back and tried to show me some 'beautiful stones' he collected. I don't know what bug is up his ass. I think he's feeling close to- uh. His Dad or something. Maybe camping isn't good for him. Maybe it's the water purification tablets."

"Please. Please please please boil your water really well before-"

"I know, I know, I missed your nagging."

Sam grins. "I gotta go."

"Hey. If you guys can still walk, I don't think you're doing that honeymoon thing right."

" _Dean_."

"I'm just saying! Who goes to get lunch?? Wait- one more thing. Tell me how your, uh. Your brain thing is going. Is your head okay?"

"Still perfectly fine," Chuck's looking up at him, curious now. "It's not like I thought it would be but. It's just. It's good to have it. It's not taking over my life or anything. It's just nice to have it there." Nice to know he's protected and that his significant other is alive and well on the other end of it. "I'm really going now. Don't go crazy with the texts unless something goes wrong, okay?"

"Yeah, yeah, I got it," then Dean starts bow-wowing his own off-key version of 'Let's Get It On' and Sam hangs up on him, shaking his head.

Chuck flashes their passes so they can get into the hall. It's a lot more empty than yesterday when it was bustling. There are still a reasonable amount of vendors set up and half the food trucks are still here. Thankfully the popsicle stand is one of them. "Everybody cool?"

"Uh," Sam shrugs. "Yeah. They're in the woods."

"The Blair Witch?"

"I don't know. They're fishing and chopping wood and whatever and they're gonna try to get the thing that haunts the woods every year."

Chuck shrugs. "It's our last day - did you really wanna try the Bulletproof Coffee? We can split it. Or just take a few sips and dump it if we hate it."

Why the hell not? A sip or two shouldn't bother Chuck's stomach too much. And if so, he's got the whole kit to take care of him.

It's thick and frothy... not the best stuff ever.

Chuck cringes at his sip. "I mean it's fine. They're obviously using real stuff and they know what they're doing but. I don't. Um." He hands it back to Sam. "I don't want this."

Sam doesn't really, either.

They split a sandwich from a place that's sending its last orders out and cleaning up, closing out, and handing off samples to the stragglers for free.

This time Sam gets a grapefruit-hibiscus ice pop and Chuck gets dulce de leche and they wander the remaining booths. Some of the vendors have seen them several times now and wave and say goodbye and wish them luck on their new marriage. Some look completely hungover and trashed and just desperate to get the fuck out.

Somebody says "Hey" a few times before Sam turns around.

A guy in a chef's jacket half-jogs around a booth to get to them. He points. "Newlyweds."

Chuck shrugs and Sam nods.

"Eli, at my booth - my floor manager - he was talking about you and how you were looking for adventures for your honeymoon or something?" He pulls a business card from his front pocket and a pen from its clip on his arm. He stops to write on an empty table and hands the card to Chuck. "Come by, when you guys get a chance. We're on the other side of town. I'd love to have you guys visit my restaurant whenever you get a chance. Skip the line, give them that card at the door. We'd be proud to have you, okay? And congratulations," he holds out his hand and Chuck quickly switches everything to his left hand to shake with his right.

"Uh. Thank you," he blinks. "That's- that's really nice of you. Thanks."

"Oh my god, seriously," Sam says, taking his turn at shaking his hand. "Thanks so much. That's so cool of you."

"Nah, I just feel like. You know. We protect each other. This whole, like, brotherhood we have and sort of fighting the social norms when you're not just boys-club jerks in the kitchen and. Yeah, you know," he shrugs.

"Oh. Right. I mean. Thanks," Sam stumbles one more time.

He tells them to have a nice weekend and throws one more shining smile at Chuck.

Like. Like maybe a.

He looks down at Chuck and they slowly turn.

"I think that was his way of not-hitting-on a married guy," Sam says under his breath.

Chuck scoffs and pockets the card. "No, dude."

Uh. Yeah, actually. Sam just isn't willing to make it a _thing_. They're having a very nice day.

They can keep having a nice day. They can go there for dinner. And he can play footsie and hold Chuck's hand over the table.

 _Taken_. He's taken.

Oh my god. "He missed his chance," Sam marvels.

"There was- there were no _chances_. Calm down."

"I'm calm. I win. I'm totally calm. How's your popsicle?"

"Good. Wanna trade?"

Sam just pauses and dips to kiss him, tonguing the flavor from his mouth. Kisses his lips once more. "That's pretty good."

"Better than the coffee."

"We'll get you regular-human coffee later," he passes his popsicle for Chuck to make an adorable face at.

"It's flowery." He winces. "Sour."

"I like it. It's not bad. I like sour sometimes."

Chuck rolls his eyes. "What about the Blair Witch, anyway? Do they know what they're getting in to?"

"Yeah. Dean's just a little distracted because Cas keeps wandering off to commune with his Father or whatever."

Chuck frowns. "What do you mean?"

"He said 'touching moss' and showing him 'beautiful rocks' and that he objected to the girls fishing. Maybe he's being pissy about something that Dean didn't realize he did."

"Hm." Chuck looks left and right and grabs two free pens off an unattended table. "These are good pens. Where was the spatula booth?"

Sam points and they wander to throw out their popsicle sticks but.  
Chuck doesn't move when he starts walking down the next row.

He looks focused, far-off.

The first thing Sam does is stop and go cold. The second thing he does - which should probably be the first from now on - is check what he hears on the other side of his head. He walks back to grab Chuck's hand but there's--

The bind's not bad. It's still soft but it's like there's a sheet whipping in a storm breeze.

"I can't- uh. Give me. Gimme your. No." Chuck lets go and fumbles for his own phone.

Sam watches him dial Cas's number.

Cas doesn't pick up.

"What's wrong?"

"Call Dean back," he orders.

Sam digs for his phone and does so. Chuck texts something to Cas.

"Speaker?"

Chuck looks around him. "Muggles."

They go to a far corner and Sam sits on a table so Chuck can press close to the phone with him.

"Sammy?"

"What did Cas say about moss and rocks?" Chuck asks.

"Uh. Um. He. Hold on." They hear Dean shuffle away from the other voices around him. "He keeps disappearing and he'll show back up and, like, stroke a tree and escort a beetle to safety. He was straight-up talking to frogs the last time I saw him. Like, _talking to frogs_."

"It's not a ghost or a witch it's a fucking fairy portal. Find him, strap him down, trap him in holy oil if you have to. Preferably you should get Cas the fuck out of there. Angels and fairy portals don't mix. If he walked into a stupid circle of mushrooms he could have walked out with a whammy on, get him out of there," Chuck orders.

Holy shit. "Dean," Sam starts.

"Yeah. Yeah, okay." He holds the phone away and calls for Charlie. "We'll get out of here, do the research, and come back without him."

"You and Charlie have crossed over to a fairy realm before, right? You'll both be able to find it, the kids won't. Make sure they stay back and hold Cas in place. Claire will be able to handle him," Chuck says.

"Alright. Okay. Got it. What if I can't find Cas?"

"Um. Bleed or- you-- if you're injured and you walk away, Cas will come to find you. You're still gonna be his first priority. Lure him out of the woods that way if you have to. Trap him in the car with a sigil or something. Talk sense to him. He'll hear it if you repeat it, it'll just take a while depending how many times he's walked back through the portal. You have to stop him now or they'll have an angel to do their bidding."

"Shit. Alright. Got it. Hanging up."

They blink at the silent phone.

"Cas also has a thing about bees and-"

"I know," Chuck shakes his head. "But that's different. Why would Cas wander away and leave Dean unprotected, in the woods, on a hunt, when he knows that Dean doesn't like camping?"

Shit. "Good point."

They both lean there for a moment. "Should we-?" Chuck finally asks.

"No. No. Um. We're still on this coast until check-out tomorrow. If we don't hear good things by then we'll start driving down. But. I'd rather hope that we hear it's taken care of and we can go west."

Chuck touches his knee. "As long as you're sure."

"We'll call and check on them. It'll be fine."

Chuck thumbs at his knee, now.

"Really," Sam insists. "It's fine."

"Okay."

"We can't all- I mean. The hunting is gonna taper off. And it'll be just the kids and we'll have to worry from a distance. We'll have to get used to this, eventually, you know?"

Chuck shifts and Sam stands and he gets his arms filled with soft, little husband.

"Let's try the crepes and the Moroccan stuff and then we can go back and I can tuck you into that huge bed again."

"Our bed will be even bigger," Chuck promises.

"Thanks. That will be _so_ awesome."

"Come on. Spatulas."

"Yeah. Spatulas."

«»

They spend a long, quiet time making out in the room. Chuck only takes Sam's clothes off for him when he wants to concentrate on them touching, not necessarily on screwing around. So Chuck takes his clothes off and kisses all over him until he's the one quiet and sleepy.

Dean calls in the middle of the night, completely apologetic.

"I know, okay, I know, but I had to tell you we're heading into the fairy circle. We have a- well, Charlie has a blessed silver sword or whatever and. We're gonna demand that they shut the circle down because sometimes it gobbles people up and doesn't let them return."

"That's a good plan," Sam escapes to shut himself in the bathroom so he can talk louder. "Is everybody okay? Is Cas-"

"Cas came out of the woods and we've got him locked up. He's not happy but Claire is talking sense into him and he finally let us leave when we went out and trapped a moth for him to take care of. He's got a goddamn moth in a jar and he's talking to it and he's happy. We think he'll shake the fairy dust when the portal closes. If not, we have other stuff to try."

"Do you know where it is?"

"Just about. And I'm almost out of range of the cell signal. The kids are gonna call you by sunrise if they don't hear from us. We know fairies do a time-warp on you."

"Be careful," Sam demands.

"We're workin' on that. Charlie's got some Oz magic on her side. We had to snort some of our own pixie dust so we could try to be invulnerable to theirs." Dean sniffs and coughs. "I swear to you, I had no idea there were this many colors in existence. I mean. This must be what it's like to be on fucking mushrooms. I think I'm seeing auras and shit. There are some angry trees out here that just want to be left alone."

Ooookay. "Um. Dean?"

"Don't worry. Just worry if you don't hear from one of the kids by six or so. Argh-" Sam hears him chop at something. "I hate doing this in the dark, but I hate somebody having their claws in Cas a little more."

"Yeah. I hear that. Look, I'm setting an alarm. 6:01 a.m. If I haven't heard anything by then, we'll load up the car."

"I'm sorry about all this on your-"

"It's fine. But. You gotta take next week, off, man," he grins only half-serious.

"Like hell I do. We won't need you. Promise. And this is gonna start happening more often, you know? We have to. Well. You know."

Sam just sighs. "Call."

"Got it. And, um. Got it, I think. There's a _glowing_ up ahead."

"Good luck."

"Don't need luck. Got firepower."

Right.

He forces himself to stop pacing after the first twenty minutes. He won't stay up walking back and forth until six.

He sets an alarm for 6:01, another for 6:02, another for 6:03. Hikes the volume up all the way. His charge is a good 90%.

He goes back to bed.

Chuck is awake enough to draw him in and bring Sam's head to his chest. "Deep breaths," he says. And they deep-breathe until they both fall asleep.

«»

5:43, the phone rings.

"Yeah," he sits bolt upright.

"We're good. We're cool. The uh. They said the trees didn't like their help much, anyway. And we got an antidote for Cas," Dean says. "It's in a bag that smells like onions."

Sam coughs a laugh. "And are you gonna be able to sleep off the 'shroom trip?"

"Charlie says we'll be fine after a couple days. Maybe Cas will be okay and he can zap us clean because this is. I mean. I had no idea how bright the stars could be," he says with just a little bit of a worrying edge of wonder.

"Alright, well. Sync up some music on the drive back. That ought to make for a hell of an experience. Windows down."

"Definitely windows down. Hey, should I burn down the toadstool circle before we go?"

"Mm. No need to make the fairy folk feel like the door should hit them on the way out. Just leave it. Hopefully it will decay on its own."

"No more calls for the next week, Sammy. Promise. I might have to text you, but. Yeah."

"Thanks, man. Drive home safe, alright?"

Sam sets his phone aside and pulls the covers back up around them.

"Turn your alarms off," Chuck mumbles.

Oh, yeah. He grabs the phone again and only leaves the 10 a.m. one on for check-out.

"Or," Chuck shifts and stretches a little. "You can go exercise. I won't stop you this time."

Sam thinks about it. He's got a little bit of adrenaline kicking just from the sudden phone call, knowing what it could mean. And it would make him feel good to exercise. He doesn't really want to be away from Chuck, but it's a good time for it.

Sam doesn't say anything. He sets his phone aside and wraps Chuck back in the covers. Kisses him softly and stays to watch his eyes close again.

"You won't miss me. I'll be downstairs. Floor two, remember?"

"I remember. And I will miss you. So come back sweaty and spare the cool-down for time with me, okay?"

Sam kisses a smile to his ear. "Got it."

«»

After the car is packed and they've checked out, they drive to scope out the restaurant they have a free honeymoon meal at.

It looks swank.

"What does the card say?"

Chuck digs it out and hands it over. There's a signature scribbled on it, a 2, double-underlined, and, **for the honeymoon couple - enjoy :)**

"Wanna see if we can get in for lunch?"

"There really is a line, wow," Chuck stretches to look at where it goes around the corner. "I'll feel like an asshole jumping in front of all those people, though."

Sam kind of will, too. "You wanna wait until the next time we're in town?"

"Oh. No. No, find a place to park."

Sam gives him another chance to change his mind. He knows that Chuck really won't feel _exclusive_ and cool skipping the line - even Sam feels like that's kind of a dick move.

"I know you think it's romantic. I know you wanna do those things, Sam," he says quietly, the corner of his mouth ticking up, mostly conceding this for his sake.

Sam taps the steering wheel. It will be a nice meal; he really wants to. He turns to find a parking space.

That's actually the hardest part of the entire ordeal. They come around the other side of the block and Sam gets the hostess' attention from behind and she lets them in without many people seeing when they hand over the business card.

Sam assumes the guy is probably here during dinner service - Robbie, that's what his jacket had said, Chef Robbie.

But as soon as the card is carried back, _people_ start appearing. They get sparkling water and they get asked if they'd like to pair their lunch with beer or wine. Sam reels for a moment before Chuck steps in. He points to Sam, "beer," he points to himself, "coffee," and the server's eyes go a little wide like she just got that message loud and clear.

"I wasn't going to-"

"I want you to have the full experience, Sammy, I really do. All that shit we learned at the convention - beer pairing is _a thing_ , now. It will probably be cool. You should be able to try it," he insists.

Maybe he can brush his teeth at a gas station or something, as they drive out of town.

Chuck's coffee comes as some fancy concoction in a glass mug with a beautiful design on top and the place is surprisingly quiet as they selectively let people in at the door, pretty much two-by-two. Large groups wait the longest to be seated, but nobody gets glared at. They just take their seats, order, and indulge, moaning like it's some kind of food orgy.

Chef Robbie comes up from behind Sam and, to his distress, angles down at Chuck for a half-hug and a pat on the shoulder before he can blink. Chuck does a pretty good job not going stiff and shocked. Sam gets a slap to the shoulder and a shake because.

Well. Because this guy has a crush on his husband but he's trying to be a good sport about it.

Sam can't even recall what they chat about. He fills in a lot of the gaps for Chuck because he's still trying to gather himself.

"So lunch instead of dinner, huh? You two are full of surprises," Robbie smiles.

"Um. Family thing. We have to head down to Georgia instead of going on our adventure. So," Sam shrugs.

"Aw. I'm sorry," he touches Chuck's shoulder again and then the table. "Listen. We'll send you off right, okay? I'll cook up something myself and-- flying or driving?"

"Um. Driving?"

"Right. So something with some energy," he points to Chuck's coffee. "I know who's driving. So, something light that won't put you to sleep. Coming right out, alright? Don't leave me without giving me some feedback. I'm gonna experiment on you two just a little," he winks.

Sam laughs, "Alright. Thanks."

Chuck watches him walk away.  
Then violently shakes out his hands.

"I know," Sam reaches for him, sympathetic. "I'm sorry, sweetheart."

"Oh my god," Chuck lets him clutch his hands, "what the fuck."

Sam gives him a dubious look.

"NO," Chuck insists.

"Yeah, actually. But he's trying to be nice about it."

Chuck looks off, exasperated. "That's so weird. He doesn't even know me."

"Clearly," Sam laughs, "that doesn't make you any less hot."

Chuck's fingers twitch in his hands and he rolls his eyes.

Chef Robbie tries some sad little _eye magic_ on Chuck one more time when he finally sends them off with another coffee in a to-go cup all "hoping to see you again," and whatever.

Sam turns Chuck to the doorway, hand at his waist, presses a kiss to the side of his head as they exit.

"Oh my god," Chuck repeats. "He really does have the hots for me??"

"Mm. You like him? I think you still have a chance to turn back. Maybe he'll be able to feed you better than I will-"

They only get a little beyond the storefront when Chuck stops and yanks him down for a kiss. Sam only had the one beer but he doesn't let it go deep and Chuck is tense like he's gonna be stubborn about it. But. Instead he falls back. "Shut the fuck up. Don't say that shit. If he liked me enough he'd know I'm not into honey mustard this week."

"Very true. You wanna drive until we see a place with decent chicken nuggets?"

"God," Chuck drops back, totally relieved. "Yes, please."

Because Chuck's sick of burgers this week, too.

«»

They stopped in Ohio last night and they got an early start this morning, packing up and getting ready to head out, keep driving west.

Only the car is being a bastard.

The engine ain't cranking and... he thinks he knows why.

On a technical as well as spiritual level if he's being fair about it: last night, when they were all tucked in, after fooling around and making a mess of each other, Sam had decided that this wasn't the time to take Chuck through Greenville.

Apparently, Mom disagrees with that.

He glares into the engine block one more time and moves away from the raised hood to look up.

"I'll get a new battery and a new filter and we'll come see you," he says to the sky. "Promise."

He puts the hood down and turns. To see Chuck leaning against the railing outside the room. "Who are we gonna see?" he squints at Sam through the glare of the sun rising.

Sam clears his throat. "Um. Since we're cutting through Illinois, anyway. You and I. Um," he motions vaguely. "Um."

"Um?"

"Mom."

"Oh," Chuck sounds winded. "You know, I didn't think of that."

Sam sits on the hood. Wipes his fingers off. Finally looks back up. "That okay?"

"Of course," Chuck says like it's a no-brainer. They let it sit silent for a good, long while. "You, um. Need help?" he motions at the car.

"I think I got it. Gotta walk up to that auto shop."

Chuck blows out a breath. "Want company?"

"Pretty much always," he smiles. "This. I mean. I know it's not the best time?"

"Whenever you're ready is exactly the right time, Sam." He picks at some peeling paint. "I know how you feel about this."

They don't talk about it. They close up the room and walk up to buy everything. Sam gets the car fixed up and it starts perfectly.

They end up getting there pretty late. Later because Sam makes him go to Dairy Queen. Because he's trying to put this off and they both know it, only Chuck probably has enough insight to know _why_ and Sam simply isn't finding the reason within himself.

He's talked to Mom. He's told her.

It's different being here. Chuck hanging back, sitting on the trunk and nodding at him to go ahead and do what he has to. Because he knows he has to.

Sam doesn't have to kneel or look up or say anything. In fact, he stares at the marker for a long time and he knows she isn't there. Knows where she is and what really matters.

Knows, separately, what matters to him.

He can't even _say_ anything. Nothing is really coming out of his mouth. So he crouches to touch the headstone and he gets back up to go to his husband.

Chuck (bless every fucking inch of him) is crying.

Sam can't help that he laughs. "It's okay." He draws Chuck back to the ground to stand.

"I know," he hiccups.

Sam helps him wipe off his face and then puts his hand to Chuck's back.

Chuck has to wipe his face off again, a couple minutes later as they stare. "Sorry, but, holy shit, that's actually real," he says, breathless and wet.

Amazing. Well. That's as good an introduction as any. "Mom, this is my husband, Chuck."

Chuck slaps his hand over his face and Sam has to pry it off and hold it.

"He's a little wound up about this because he probably doesn't think he's as good at this as he is. But he's really good. He's very good." Sam squeezes his hand tight. "He protects me. And I love him. And we got married on April 11th. Dean was there and Charlie, Cas, Claire, Krissy. Our family helped us so that Chuck has a way to protect me and he did it. He did it," Sam breathes sudden relief.

Relief like the wind that sweeps through the cemetery and makes Chuck huddle into him.

Sam finally got to do this.

He made it to this point in life. He got married. He actually did it. And for no other reason than that the person who asked loves him and wants to protect him.

For no other reason. No manipulation, no tragedy, not as a result of a deal or a fight or a lack of options, even.

"He does a really good job," Sam digs the toe of his boot into the ground a little. Takes a breath. Looks down. Rubs at Chuck's shoulders.

"Am I supposed to say anything?" he hiccups again sounding just utterly sad.

"You don't have to."

"Thanks. I'm completely in-intimidated."

"I think he's going for humble," Sam says to the sky, knowing, somehow, without knowing his Mom much at all, that she'd laugh.

«»

Sam holds him, in the car, for a while after. He doesn't even really think that Chuck needs to be comforted, despite the tears. He does it more because he wants to feel this particular thing at this particular moment. He wants it for his own comfort and a little bit to feel how real it is.

Chuck gets walloped by reality in unexpected ways. Seeing the gravestone and seeing the name carved on it - that was a reality that could build on stress and put him in danger of slipping off. That's not what Sam wants. That hasn't happened since a few weeks before the wedding. He would like it to stay that way. He wants his husband present for-- for. Well. Forever.

This was a good thing and it was kind of emotionally exhausting. They need to sleep and get back to 'happy' together. They need to pick up their honeymoon in the morning. Sam wants it to be outrageously romantic and stupidly sexy and, more than that, _promising_.

He wants this to be a promise of the life he's going to give to his spouse.

Sam keeps thinking about Chef Robbie and how, if Chuck had the energy and the sobriety and the presence of mind to leave his house and live in the world, this might not have happened. Sam might not have nabbed the guy who's gonna protect him for the rest of his life.

He puts a hand to Chuck's hair and breathes him in.

He's still got that enhanced quality, and Sam thinks the spell is to thank for it. The bind is holding it in place. Chuck tastes amazing, still, and, as they wove through crowds at the convention, Sam had the satisfaction of feeling him sway into his side no matter how thick the masses were. When they're intimate, now, Chuck is more eager than patient.

Sam likes him patient and likes it when they go slow. But there's also a place in their relationship for sex that's sudden and passionate and fun.

He can't really mind that the bind isn't giving him much, mentally. It's given him all this. These present and physical things. And the protection that Chuck's proposal promised.

"Urg," Chuck says. "I ate ice cream and cried a lot. That's not the greatest feeling in the world."

"How about I find a bed for you?" Sam kisses him.

"Are you sure I didn't need to say anything?" Chuck asks, quiet. "I don't want you to think I'm not taking this seriously. She's just this. Towering mythological being for the entire time I've known her and now. She's."

His mother-in-law.

"She's always around if we need to speak to her. I just. This is just kind of where I thought she could really meet you." He pulls Chuck back and pets his hair. "And don't worry about first impressions. I've been talking about you for a while. I think you're exactly the hermit crab she'd expect."

Chuck sniffles one more time. "I don't know why I feel better knowing that."

Sam blows out a breath. "I think because the description is very apt," he pulls Chuck's hood up and they watch it begin to rain.

«»

He doesn't know if maybe he should go see Mom again, in the morning, on his own. But it keeps raining, so it feels a little more right to stay close to Chuck.

Mary doesn't disagree; they pack and get back on the road without incident.

Rain tapers off as they head west. They decide in Kansas that it will be _fine_ to drive the most direct route, through New Mexico and Arizona. They don't have to like it and they can stop in Texas before going on, straight through both states and out the other side.

The first night in the new, fancy, San Diego hotel, Chuck has a nightmare. Like a ripping-gutting, bowels-and-puss, choking on his own oxygen nightmare.

Sam doesn't know what's happening. A painful light wakes him, like someone turned a spotlight on directly above where he sleeps, but he wakes in the dark, just slats of gray from outside the windows.

And it takes him a minute to feel Chuck next to him, unwound from the covers and breathing hard. He thrashes and his hands clutch in the sheets. He says, "No no no no no no no," like he's in pain, under repeated attack, but he's positive it's only just begun and there's no one to cry out to for help.

Sam's breath ramps up in response - or maybe it already was?

He pulls the sheets from their tangle, slips them from Chuck's hands, and shakes them out to wrap around him.

He calls out, "Chuck, Chuck, sweetheart, it's nothing but a dream, wake up, you can wake up, sweetheart," and he comes in, incrementally, to close in on him, keep his hands spread out, maybe prevent them from clawing his palms.

After another frantic minute, Chuck wakes with a shout like he was stabbed.

"Sshh, shh-shh-shh-shh," Sam reaches over to click his phone on to illuminate the room a little. "Hey. It was just a nightmare. You're safe in bed with me. Can you hear me?"

Chuck gulps down a big breath. "Yes," he sounds weak.

"Do you know where you are?"

"Bo-uh. San Diego. San Diego in April. It's April. I'm in bed with Sam Winchester. I'm okay. I'm not. I'm not bleeding. Uh. Am I?"

"No, you're not. Do you wanna turn on the light and look?"

Chuck hisses like pain. "Yeah. Yeah, actually. Can-?"

Sam reaches over him and snaps on the lamp. They blink to adjust their vision and Chuck looks down, pushes at Sam's arms, pushes at the sheets. Splays a hand over his center.

"He was. He was." Chuck catches his breath a little more.

"Who?" Sam asks. But for some reason he knows it's-

"Alastair."

"Okay. Okay. It wasn't. So, deep breaths."

Chuck nods and inhales with him a few times. "He was. He was taking from between the ribs--"

Sam kinda doesn't wanna hear. But he breathes and readies himself for it.

"It was me. It wasn't anybody else. And he wanted the meat from between my ribs. He left the rest there. He let them eat my. Eat my. My. He let them. And they," Chuck stumbles.

Sam signals him deliberately to take another breath with him.

He does. Then turns and scrambles back into Sam's hold. "Okay. That um. That came out of nowhere. That was so weird."

"That's happened before," Sam presses. It doesn't happen often. Less often, indeed, than the times he fades behind the curtain. It doesn't seem to be connected in any way, either. It doesn't follow or portent an episode. But when Chuck has nightmares, they're run-for-your-life and brutal.

Sam checks his vitals; he's a little warm. He presses him to lay out, away from himself.

Chuck whines, as he does. But Sam presses his face against his shoulder, tangles their hands. And that's all it takes for Chuck to make a contented little noise. "I know you got rid of him," Chuck says, eventually. "I know... all about it but you should know it's still a comfort. You still did good, Sam."

That's what he'd been worried about discussing. "I want you to rest," he kisses his face and reaches over to turn off the lamp, grab his phone. There's an alarm tone that never works to wake Chuck up. Sam changes the first alarm to that one. He can let Chuck sleep in a while.

"Okay," Chuck says when he settles down. "I love you, Sammy."

"Thanks. Love hearing that. Love you, too."

The nightmare wasn't a warning of anything. Chuck is no more disconcerted by reality than normal, come morning. The home show is not as exciting as the foodie convention. They do a lot more research and talking there. Chuck gathers a whole lot of materials on solar power, attends a class on basic construction, and overall they take it quite seriously. It's more like studying than the party that the other con was.

When they talk to people at the booths, they get more in-depth with questions about paint chips and patterns that flow and, Sam doesn't know how Chuck feels about it, but it really seems like these people can only answer a limited set of their questions. Kinda like they'll actually have to decide what their own style preferences are by, like, looking around. Flipping through magazines.

They'll actually have to _think_ about it.  
It makes Sam feel weird that he basically has to be hand-fed this revelation.

Chuck wins a raffle this time. They call his fake name over the intercom and have him claim his prize: a $300 gift card from Home Depot. He has to decline a few times to have his picture taken, but Sam gets him out of there well enough.

He flips it back and forth in his hands. "This is actually really cool??"

"We are sickeningly domestic, aren't we?"

"Dean's gonna be so proud of us, though."

Very true.

"Not gonna taste as good as the cookie basket," Chuck mumbles.

Also true.

«»

They only go to the first two days, then lounge and sleep and fuck around in the ritzy hotel room.

This tub is a much better size. The jets he could live without.

There are two grooves for him to plant his feet and he fucks Chuck good and proper. Has him falling asleep by the time the water cools. Then he hits the jets and it circulates warmer water and he feels so good he hums until Chuck blinks back awake and joins in.

Their tastes in music don't perfectly coincide, but Chuck has been expanding his horizons through exposure. Sam can find something to like on most the regular radio stations. Chuck listens to a lot of... well, heroin rock when he's not listening to something a little more indie.

And Chuck knows all the music from all the cassettes in the Impala front to back. So they'll do the regular driving music every now and again, but, thankfully, travelling with Chuck is a very different experience.

As another example: the wheel is always up for grabs. Given their histories, Chuck feels like Sam is the safer, more experienced driver, despite the fact that he's driven himself around ever since he could and Sam was always with Dean, bogarting the driver's seat.

Sometimes Chuck wants to drive, and that's fine, but not often in cities (he likes to people-watch) and on long stretches he'd rather man the GPS, the radio, the phones, and start fidgeting with Sam's right hand whenever it's free. But he can (and is allowed to because Sam isn't a road hog) do the driving and it's nice to be able to switch off with him and sleep.

Not that Sam actually sleeps. He may read the news to Chuck or listen to podcasts with him, want to tell stories with him.

But the possibility is there and it's a nice change.

Both reading and writing can happen, to a point. Chuck gets carsick if he does it too long and the A/C isn't blasting. Sam could do it indefinitely. He's well-practiced, of course.

Today, after leaving San Diego, Chuck is driving because he's not wild about being on the west coast, but he knows the roads and how to get them back east, fast.

Dean calls while Sam is fiddling with the music. He answers on speaker.

"Bah. Hey. I actually meant to text, but I just automatically dialed," he grumbles at himself. "You want me to hang up?"

Sam smiles, "No, you're fine. What's up?"

"I think Cas finally came down from his weird fairy high but. Uh. We have a- what do you call it? Aviar- apiary. We have an apiary now. Officially. Up on the hill. It was part of his terms for keeping calm."

They both laugh at him. "There's nothing wrong with bees, Dean. Bees save the world."

"Bees sting! Josie's worried about coming by, now!"

Well, she and her team don't visit the bunker much, as-is. Aiden supposedly hates it there, so they're more likely to meet them out on the road. "I'm sure Cas can keep the bees calm with that smoke stuff when she comes around. Let him keep the bees, even if he's clean."

Dean sighs. "Yeah, I was gonna let him."

"Think of all the cooking you can do with your local honey," Chuck offers. "We got some recipes. We'll copy them for you."

Dean seems to consider this for a long moment. "Huh. Good point. So what's with you two, anyway? The fuckfest over?"

"Not if I have anything to say about it," Chuck says, loud and clear.

"Okay, alright. I wasn't actually asking, geeze. Gross."

"The amount of damaging shit we've seen from you..." Chuck mumbles.

"Yeah, anyway, hanging up now before I have to hear you two bicker," Sam says, and hangs up on him. If he didn't actually get to the point, he can get to it in text. "So, is there anything else we need to do? To make our honeymoon complete?"

Chuck considers. "I don't know. But, actually, I'd kind of like to get back. I want to see the bones of the house again. And have Charlie sync my stuff back onto my phone and my computer. I kinda gotta... I guess figure out what my time is gonna look like now that I'm not _me_ anymore."

Oh crap. Sam cringes. They've been avoiding the topic- well, not _avoiding_ , but dancing around it a little. Sam still feels guilty as hell and, though Chuck keeps saying he's fine with it, he seems a little unmoored at times. Each time he reached for his phone and forgot everything had been wiped from it but the damn time of day, he frowned and slumped a little.

"You're _you_ still," Sam offers. "Just _you_ under the radar. I mean. You were never really above-board with everything all the time, anyway."

"I know. I do know that. Just. You know how we said we'd work on books? On writing books together? I um." He hesitates for a while. "I don't wanna disappoint you, but. I always figured - I guess I always kinda figured if I ever reached the point where I wasn't scrounging for paychecks, I'd be able to, you know. Go back to fiction. Maybe fuck around with novels where I didn't steal the damn material." He chances a glance at Sam before he signals to move around some cars. "I just. I know we said we'd do this. But you can still - I mean you've got lesson plans to construct. Like you did with Claire. You can start-"

"Totally," Sam jumps in. "Absolutely. Look. I mean, if fiction is what you wanna kick around next, I'm behind you. 100%," he assures him, just a little stung, but more than able to deal with it. Chuck got everything yanked out from under him. He was interrogated and assaulted and he lost his "life" to their marriage. Sam is absolutely, without question, able to support Chuck no matter what he does. This only means that one of their plans is on hold. It doesn't mean that it disappears.

This is his job as a husband, after all. To support his significant other through whatever he wants to do with his life. Sam would never stifle Chuck's desire to make art. That comes first. He swears to himself that Chuck won't have to lose _everything_ that he had before. And if he can do this? If he can write real fiction instead of operate on borrowed memories or scrounge for paychecks a few paragraphs at a time? That's extremely important. That's more important than the textbooks. They have time. They have time for all of that and more. One project simply gets set aside for another. It's more important that Chuck feel like he can have this. It's important for him to know who he is and make sure he's happy, no matter what he ends up doing.

Sam's kind of curious to see what kind of new person his husband is gonna be, anyway. Like, he's gonna be free of regular-people obligations, right? It's going to mean a few new patterns in his life. It's maybe going to mean exciting things for him. He's not just avoiding the masses any longer, he's gonna be moving in the current that whips around the civilians without them knowing. Not that Sam wanted to drag him into the war with him - he doesn't want to be on the front lines, he doesn't want himself or Chuck or Dean or even Cas there - Sam just knows that things are different even when you've just got one foot over the fence of law-abiding society.

"I might not. I might not feel completely secure about you reading them. I mean. Not over my shoulder and stuff. It's just. This would be different. Different than anything else I've had the opportunity to do."

Sam nods. "I understand that. Just tell me. I don't plan on being your critic. I only ever wanna see you do what makes you happy."

Chuck blows out a breath and twists his hands on the steering wheel.

"Hey," Sam has to remind him: "You deserve to have someone tell you that. You deserve to do things that make you happy. It's my fucking _job_ to make sure that's exactly what happens from now on. If you're ever not happy, you come to me and we work on it."

Chuck takes another ragged breath. "I'm so fucking crazy about you. I'm so in fucking love with you."

Sam smirks and reaches to spread his hand over Chuck's thigh. "I'd do that road-head thing for you if you didn't-"

"I would totally just drive us right off the road, please don't."

Sam laughs.

He feels a sigh like Chuck's, ragged but relieved, over the bind, a flutter in the soft sheets that surround them.

Chuck's been worried about asking for this.

Sam has to stop letting him worry, alone, over things like that. He's gotta ask more often. He's gotta ask until he just _knows_. "I'm excited that this is gonna happen. You should have felt free enough to do that before, sweetheart. You should feel free, now. We pretty much own these roads. Money's no object at the moment, with Charlie looking out for us. We can go wherever you want, whenever. Or we can go nowhere if you wanna stay home. So just make sure you tell me, huh?"

Chuck nods. "It just doesn't feel as simple as that."

This. Is. His. Job.  
He will make it as simple as that.

«»

So it's the last leg before home and this weird little country coffee shop was the best Sam could find for them on short notice, but the damn place is overrun with morning commuters right now and there's no fucking parking unless he waits for a space.

Chuck decided to get out and start waiting in line while Sam finds a place to park.

Just as a space frees up, Sam's heart jumps into his throat and his breath catches feeling a spark of interest that he knows doesn't belong to him. Something sudden must have happened in the café and it's exciting that he can feel this ring in so clear from such a distance - but the anxiety comes in stronger, right on the tail of the curiosity. He parks and gets the laptop bag as fast as he can. Has to turn around and lock back up. It's cool, it really is, when something's strong enough to make this kind of push through the bind, but he's not exactly thrilled about feeling Chuck's unease just because there was enough force behind it to propel it over to Sam.

Then - just as sudden, just as thrilling - there's a feeling, fleeting as the rest, that he can't define but wants to _chase after._

The crowd is thick in the café (but, you know, he's still taller than everyone). He spots Chuck settling down to a table.

With someone sitting down across from him.

Dude looks like a salesman. He's dressed in a suit, holding a coffee of his own. He's built alright but Sam would bet he doesn't maintain it - too skinny. His neck would snap if Sam wrapped the strap of his bag around twice and pulled. He wouldn't even have to plant a knee in his back.

He puts on a nice face just in case the guy isn't actually harassing Chuck.

Chuck's eyes find him and they look like _oh thank god_. "Sam," he says almost a little too loud for the room. "Hi."

He comes up to the side of the table and cocks his head slightly. "Hey?"

SalesmanGuy looks up.  
And up.  
And _up_.

Sam smiles even more.

"Sorry, this is, uh, Josh, I know Josh from school. We were in a bunch of screwy humanities electives together."

Josh turns back to Chuck.  
Wide-eyed.

"Um. That's-" Chuck has to clear his throat. "This is my husband? Sam." He points, belatedly, just in case Josh missed the giant human staring him down.

"Um. Wow. Wow, hi. So, hey," he starts to get up, recovers slightly. "Didn't wanna interrupt your coffee or your breakfast or anything. Just. Really nice seeing you, Chuck. And um," he stands, offers his hand and Sam shakes it. "Sam, right? Nice meeting you, Sam. I have," he sort of nods toward the door. "That job interview. And I'm nervous enough about that, I really am normally. Um. Very personable. Promise," he laughs.

Sam is amused. "No big deal, I believe you."

"Chuck?" Josh turns to him again. "Um. Maybe see you around if I end up in this neck of the woods? I'll probably bump into you here, in any case," he raises the cup he's holding, nods and sort of retreats from there.

They both watch him go and Chuck just mouths _what the fuck_ to himself. "I didn't get any of the sugar or anything," he shakes his head at himself. "He was-- I was distracted," he looks up at Sam.

He only shrugs and hands over the laptop bag and heads over to edge in between the other patrons to grab what they need. Sam knows Chuck is just sitting there wincing, repeating his words to himself, but he can't feel the embarrassment. The moment, those few emotions that were strong enough, have followed Josh right out the door.

Chuck has unpacked everything and found the WiFi on his tablet by the time he gets back.  
Looks up and bites his lip like he wasn't just talking to himself.

Sam scoots the other chair around and wedges in close which frees up space for a crowded table to the left. They start to ask if they're using the third chair and Sam waves them off, still can't wipe the smile off his face.

It's a different smile by now, though.

Chuck exchanges the iPad for the sugar and leans to sink against Sam. He gives it a minute, stretches his arm over the back of Chuck's chair, feeling a tiny bit smug and a lotta bit satisfied. He looks over the crowds as they settle against one another.

Chuck fixes both their coffees up before he looks to Sam again.

"Hey," he says, close and quiet and there's that feeling behind it that made Sam want to come to him. His face is soft and open and a little curious.

"I thought he was trying to sell you something."

"Yeah, you looked real annoyed." Chuck looks down to stir at the sugar in his cup. "Oy."

"Oy?"

Chuck clears his throat. "Jesus," Chuck sighs and clunks his elbow on the table and leans to the side on his hand. Stares at Sam, wide-eyed. "He was my thing for maybe three months in the third year at Penn State. He, um. He was such a. Goddamnit. Such a nice guy. He's so polite. He's too polite. He's kind of. Just. Precious. One of those people who get their cheeks pinched by old grannies who actually _like_ that. He's just. Really fucking nice."

Sam's eyes slide between Chuck and the door. "I just met one of your exes?"

Chuck shrugs.

"You should finish your coffee," Sam says, settles Chuck back against himself and works on his own.

"Um. Why? Aren't we staying for the WiFi?"

"You introduced me to someone you know -- for the first time _ever?_ As your husband," Sam just sits back and nods like, _you know what the fuck is up_.

It takes Chuck a second but he nods. Yes, he knows what the fuck is up.

"Josh didn't appreciate the words," Chuck nods. "He didn't get it. He wasn't wild about that part," he puts his hand on Sam's arm and his eyes go wide. "Brace yourself: he didn't like the dirty talk."

Sam puts his coffee back on the table deliberately and looks to the ceiling as if gathering the strength to not lash out. "That's a fucking travesty," he declares.

Chuck shrugs. "His loss."

Woah. "He didn't dump you?" Sam searches him, genuinely bothered, now.

"He did. Actually." Chuck nods. "Yep. But I wasn't nice and he was nice. He let me down very gently. It was totally confusing."

Sam is... disgusted.

Which makes Chuck smile. "I love the hell out of you," he says, almost too soft and genuine for such a public place.

Sam pulls Chuck's hand from his coffee to hold it on the tabletop. "I love you, too. I have better taste than Josh. I really, really loved hearing you say that." It was entirely different from them introducing each other by their aliases, under their varying identities at the conventions and in the hotels.

"This is my husband, Sam," Chuck repeats for him. Squeezes his hand.

Sam feels his heart clog up his throat. It's not new but suddenly, now, here at the end of their honeymoon, the beginning of the rest of their life together, it feels soft and incredible and precious and, yes, new. Oh, fuck. "I like those words so much. I wanna get you naked and touch you until you give me more."

Chuck pulls his hand up to kiss it. "I can finish my coffee in the car and you can drive us the rest of the way home. So you can be alone with me."

"God. Thank you," Sam shakes his head. "I-- thanks. I really need that. I never thought I'd-" he stops his ramble. "Wow. He um. He looked a little bit like E-"

"Ewan McGregor," Chuck cringes. "Yeah, I know. With the teeth and the smile. His hair didn't always look like that. It used to be longer."

"Oh my god, you have a thing for long hair, don't you?"

"I have a thing for nice hair. You take the title, really. But," he scoots again. "Can I?"

Sam nods, leans down a little.

Chuck brushes the ends of his hair out.

"Prettier?" Sam asks when he sits back.

"Elegant," Chuck gives him a thumbs-up. "Sometimes it looks a little like a helmet when the ends turn in."

Sam rolls his eyes and tosses his hair back some. He drags the bag back over the tabletop. "Can I ask you-- I'm, like, slightly j-" Mmm. He winces, stops himself again. No. "I'm gonna ask a few more questions."

Chuck cocks his head. "Okay?"

"Was he. I mean. Three months? Wow." He's going nowhere better with this. It's edging into words Chuck doesn't wanna hear him say. Chuck thinks jealousy is a little fucked up. He's got reasons for that which don't actually make much sense to Sam. Like, for real? He just met one of Chuck's _exes_. The guy was neat and normal and good-looking and well-dressed. This is somehow different from Chef Robbie, who never would have had a chance with him, who clearly crushed on Chuck from afar and let it go with grace.

And. Yeah. Both of them normal. Classically handsome and whatever.  
But Josh got to Chuck long before Sam ever knew about him.

Admittedly, there's nothing you can do about that kind of thing. It just doesn't stop his lizard-brain or whatever from feeling _mean and useless_.

"Sam," he attempts to draw his attention back up, but Sam keeps fussing with the bag.

"I mean. You. Shit. He dumped you?" he should probably stop thinking about it. It really fucking bugs him. It bugs him more that somebody would be so fucking careless.

God. He got Chuck in one shot. They didn't play the break-up game. They weren't with other people when they met. Sam fell in love with him and Chuck came to like him back. And they've toughed it out through bloody hunts and cramped spaces and tense conversations about the past. And Chuck _loves him_ and has proven it so much that, at this point, he's allowed to _believe him_ when he says he won't leave.

Who in _fuck_ would send him away??

"Yeah. And it was maybe a little longer than three months. I don't know. That was a hell of a long time ago. We were drunk a lot. Partying. Seeing awful independent films."

Sam pauses. Finally looks back up.

They had fun and Josh still dumped him. Chuck was 'too mean.' Mean?

Chuck whispers into Sam's hair and drinks Capri Suns and can't stand yelling and idolizes their sister and thought there was a fair chance he was going to get turned down when he proposed.

He _proposed_.

Sam shakes himself. "I changed my mind. I don't give a shit. I don't give a shit. You asked me to marry you."

Chuck shrugs like this is true but he's confused about relevance.

"Yeah, I don't give a shit."

Chuck stands and puts the lid back on Sam's coffee. He takes both their cups and extends a finger to poke Sam's shoulder. "C'mon. Car."

Sam shakes it off and nods and follows him outside.

Chuck goes to the passenger side and waits for Sam to open his door. "Wait here a sec?" he puts the coffees down inside and then turns to take the bag from Sam, drop it in the seat. Closes the door behind himself. "Okay." He leans against the car, looks up at Sam, watches as he tries to formulate something else to say that won't sound disconnected and insecure and unsettled-- and yanks on his collar to bring him down for a kiss.

Chuck moans into it and keeps a grip on Sam's shirt.

Eventually, Sam gets the message. He presses against him, licks into his mouth, and loses himself a little bit, kissing nice and dirty and out where anybody could see. And everyone can. The parking lot is still packed.

Chuck pulls away to bring Sam's ear down. He sinks his teeth in against the lobe, light, until Sam's pressing against him so solid that the car tilts just a bit. "This is my husband, Sam Winchester," he says, and Sam takes an unsteady breath. His hands go under Chuck's shirt, to his sides. He reaches up to pet the back of Sam's neck. Kisses his ear. "You okay?"

"Yeah. Um. God. I'm. I'm fucking. You're gonna tell me I'm being a shithead." His damn eyelids flutter, Chuck's petting him so nicely and keeping him so fiercely close.

"No, I'm not," he soothes, quiet and sure in the din of the outside world.

"You haven't told me much about the other people you've been with. You know everybody I've been with. I've told you everything I remember."

"I know. So you think you wanna have a thorny conversation that will make you more jealous than a three-minute run-in with a dude who used to blow me back in college?"

Sam presses his jaw down into the crook of Chuck's neck. And flexes. He pulls Chuck away from the car and hugs him close. Somebody honks. They don't check to see why.

"So, okay," Chuck decides. "You have to understand that I'm okay with the caveman thing. It's unnecessary, but flattering if I'm being completely honest. And I know that you know how to balance yourself back out. Because it still bothers you, no matter what I say. So we're gonna let it happen and then put it away again, alright?" he pulls back to look at Sam and Sam's still got his jaw locked up tight so he can shut the fuck up and hear - _hear_ \- what Chuck's telling him. Chuck pushes Sam's hair out of his face and the wind almost kicks it back. "I'll tell you everything you wanna know in the car. Then we'll go back home and back to our bed and you can be a caveman and let it go again tomorrow. Okay?"

Sam breathes through his nose. "Tomorrow?"

"Nice, big, flexible deadline. You're blowing this up more than you know. I feel bad about it. But it's very easy for me to dismiss the people in your past because they're not here. They just didn't choose to value you enough - I've seen it and I'm here and they're not. They don't know how spectacular you are or maybe they didn't have a chance to know. But I do. And I lucked the fuck out because you like me back-"

Sam shakes his head.

Chuck pushes his hair back again. "You might think I poop roses and rainbows but you've got a really whacked out scale-"

"Nobody else really listens to you. Goddamnit, if they _listened_ they'd be where I am right now. Chuck, the people who read and who listened and who wanted more of you? They got it. They got here before I did. I wanna know what they noticed so I can prove to you that I value it more than they did."

Chuck's expression melts into something so goddamn tender. "I already know you do, Sammy," he shakes his head, insists. "You said 'yes.' In real life I'm honestly just a fucking loser. And you're amazing and you said yes to me. I will let you do this caveman thing, I promise. You can indulge in it every now and then. But I _swear to you_ that I know how much you love me. I am continually blown away by it. It's incredible." He pauses to hold Sam's head and waits for Sam to meet his eyes dead-on. "I'm not going anywhere. I might not say that as much as you need to hear it. I'm sorry. That's gonna change, now that I've noticed it. I'm not going anywhere. You're the very fucking top, you're so far out of my range. But you like me anyway. I'm having a hard time even coming up with some joke scenario that I'd choose over you. Ten billion dollars and another season of _Firefly_? Like, no, thanks, I'm good right where I am."

Sam gives a big inhale and exhale. "Crap. I've had you outside for like ten minutes now. Your allergies are gonna be so bad," he pulls back and handles Chuck around so he can open the door. "Get inside," he kisses the side of Chuck's head. "Tell me if you start to get a headache."

Chuck doesn't let Sam start the car before kissing him again. "You can ask. I won't be pissed. I won't be offended. And you won't feel bad about saying what you need to get off your chest. We can be polite tomorrow."

"Tomorrow," Sam breathes. Because Chuck is willing to listen to the caveman bullshit even when he hasn't asked for it.

"Yeah."

Sam closes his eyes and sits back. Then takes a deep breath and opens them again and starts the car. "You looked so relieved when I came up behind him that I actually thought he was just a salesman or something."

"It was just awkward. But when you step into the middle of a conversation, it tends to stop so the other party can fully absorb the sheer size of you. I was really glad that happened and that he pretty much ran for the hills."

"I felt bad about running off your friend until. Well."

"Oh. Yeah. He looked like he didn't want me to mention that we were more than friends. I mean. That's what the wide-eyed look he gave me seemed like."

Sam snorts.

"He looked like he had a vision of being crushed like a bug. You loomed very well, Sammy. You're a great loomer," he puts out his hand and Sam takes it once he's merged into traffic again.

Sam _isn't_ going to take the offer Chuck made. He's not. It's a shithouse thing to do, making Chuck feel like he has to give Sam a day-pass on appropriate behavior just to handle his possessive tendencies.

He does _not_ owe Sam a list of the people he's been with. And they truly do not matter. Maybe Sam didn't give Amelia... or Jess. Or anyone a real shot at knowing him. Dean broke the rules with Cassie and Sam should have known to break the rules so the people he loved would know him.

He'll never know if they would have chosen him, with their eyes open like that.

But more than telling - Chuck has always had his eyes and his mind open to Sam. His full understanding.

He knows things Sam wouldn't have chosen to tell him.

And Sam is who he chose, anyway.

He doesn't care what anyone else thought because they didn't choose Chuck in the end. They obviously weren't paying enough attention to finish what they started.

He lets it sit for a while. Chuck lets his hand go so he can pass him his coffee as he drives.

"You want me to tell you?" he eventually offers.

He shakes his head. "Only if you want to tell me. I know what I need to know. You're right. I know what I need to know," he repeats for himself, nods.

"I'm sorry," Chuck says.

"You don't have to apologize. What about this is your fault?" Sam glances to him.

"I know who I'd run into from your past. You don't know the same thing about me."

"So, what I can't just _loom_ and get rid of them? I know better than they do. They're not with you so they're ignorant on one level or another and therefore beneath my notice," he declares diplomatically.

"Ah. Okay. Wow."

Sam glances from the road to him again and he's a little wide-eyed. "Wow?"

"Yeah," he sighs. "You know, I got married a couple weeks ago and I'm still realizing that somebody picked me. I just." He tosses a hand. "I'm still a little star-struck by you. I'm like. A big fan."

"President of my fan club. You write the best, porny fanfic about me getting it on with my husband."

"Mm. Well we're both legally dead so I guess it really is fiction. We couldn't possibly exist."


	6. how far does your road go?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ***** WARNING for thoughts about self-harm *****

They spend a few days at the apartment and... it's different than it was.

Different, even, than the hours they spent here before embarking on the rest of their honeymoon.

Sam and Chuck have been living together for a while now and in different circumstances, but nothing quite like this.

They had a busy honeymoon. Sam worries that it was a little too busy when he unloads all the pamphlets and notes from his bag to organize what he got from the home-and-garden show; even the appliance vendors at FoodieCon.

Before San Diego there was Boston and they were just around a lot of people, then. Before that, the arrest, and before the arrest, the hunt.

He sits with his bag dumped of all this stuff, crowds the kitchen table, listening from across the apartment as Chuck puts laundry away in the closet and the drawers and putters around their bedroom.

They didn't do sex on the beach and dancing and sightseeing.  
And they didn't have the normal things running up to the wedding - finding photographers and tasting cakes and deciding on flowers. And whatever.

He sits back and looks out the window and he doesn't understand the shape of things.

Today, all that's available of the bind seems to be a peep-hole through a door. Shadows move on the other side and he's aware that, should he press close, he could see far-away images of what's happening on Chuck's side of things.

The apartment wasn't tied to Chuck's legal name.

Chuck's legal identity - all his legal identities? They're gone. Destroyed. A stolen van on fire, exploded, scattered so spectacularly that the meager evidence they left there was barely recognizable. Charlie found the images of it in evidence. He's been declared dead. All his info is back on the laptop she was able to take out with both him and the evidence in "custody". Chuck can be back in the same place he lived, doing pretty much what he was doing before.

But there are fundamental differences.

One: he chose a spouse and the two of them are psychically and spiritually glued together.  
Two: any writing he produces - any art he does - doesn't have to be a means of surviving.  
Three: Sam and Chuck are a family.

When Sam thinks of his family, now, he doesn't mean the loose group that's gathered around himself and Dean - the kids, plus Charlie, plus Cas, plus Chuck.

It's been a long time since he thought only of himself and Dean when referencing the concept.

To his view, "family" means that he comes as a package deal with Chuck, and he has a brother who means the world to him, and there the rest fall around them.

Sam's reconfigured this in his head, consciously.

Because, for as devoted as he has always been to Dean, his borders now extend out into new territory.

Sometime between Boston and San Diego, Sam began seeing the frame of the house in Sioux Falls each time he thought _I can't wait to rest at home - I can't wait to do this at home - I can't wait until I feel this way with Chuck at home_.

The apartment is close and small and friendly and comfortable and definitely _their place_. Definitely the current-day definition of home that most serves their purposes.

But _their home_ is up there. On Bobby's old lot. He's been calling it The Lot a lot. It's getting to the point where he wants a better name for it. A name like old properties have. The roads up there are mostly numbered but Eagle Road is nearby - he could call it that. He's just not sure how he feels about calling it anything other than Bobby's, despite the fact that nobody thinks it feels like Bobby's place anymore.

Sam decides that's not exactly the point, at the moment.

What's really feeling off is that things are so different, but not as different as he'd imagined.

Perhaps he just grew into this more securely than he thought. Maybe he wasn't ready to leave so many doubts behind so suddenly, but a lot of weight has just fallen from his shoulders.

There is _nothing_ \- not one goddamn thing - to doubt about their marriage. They both wanted this, they both have it, they both feel so completely secure in one another. They keep doubting _themselves_ as individuals, keep doubting their worthiness of one another and their ability to see this through - but they don't doubt themselves as _a family unit_.

It's amazing, but it's not going to cure every single one of their doubts and anxieties about one another and about the past. It's just that, when you get to a point where someone's let you keep a path open into their head and a tether strung on to their soul? Well, you tend to think that, yes, they're past the point of changing their mind.

Chuck isn't going to change his mind on him. He's not gonna dump Sam any time soon.  
So what is he so unsettled about?

This should be a time of settling. Of finding new patterns and fitting into grooves.

Dear fucking god. Maybe this is what biological ticking sounds like? He has no idea.

He's always acknowledged that the majority view of marriage is as a set of steps. This is the space in the air where your foot ascends to the next step from wedding - to honeymoon - to marriage - to living together - to starting a family. All those nice, neat little boxes stacked up so you can climb them. But there are boxes missing in their lives that won't ever allow for a nice, heel-toe march uphill.

No career to conquer. No kids to have. No college savings accounts to open. No retirements to plan.

Sam considers this for a long minute because. To be honest? Not all those missing boxes are completely out of reach.

He thinks about this every few months and he doesn't at all feel comfortable sharing the thought.

In fact, he feels so squirrely about it, he puts a mess of noise between himself and his awareness of the bind, trying to block Chuck from seeing or hearing anything should he tune in. Sam isn't entirely sure it works, but maybe it will be the best approximation necessary for their weak signal. He purposely gets a song stuck in his head.

Then, in this space behind the noise where there's nothing to share, he carefully inspects an image. A vision of them in their completed house, in one of the rooms upstairs. He makes himself look into one of them, formed and decorated more clearly than ever before since he understands better and better, each week, how it is that the house will look.

In this place he goes through a doorway into a room with soft light and he decides he has to look at Chuck as he holds their baby.

Sam's not good with this image. He can imagine it a hundred different ways and then he redraws it into one scenario or another. Some child they now have as a result of a hunt gone wrong or an adoption or a monster leaving their kid behind. He can make those details up to fill in the gaps in order to create one, whole image and gauge himself from it.

He has to check his fantasies and his realities and his near-realities against certain truths: that he can't picture bringing a child into their life; that he doesn't feel for children the way he feels for the adults and young adults he's grown to care for; that this is more of a box to him than a deep, howling need.

He tries to find a need for it, a want for it, and he doesn't find it. Chuck is beautiful in this image, soft in the low light and holding something precious in his arms. But he's beautiful to Sam, regardless. He is more beautiful here, in this reality, where he sets his laptop up to play music from the band whose song Sam is using to fuzz him out of the bind. Where he moves easily around their space, sober and awake and cared for and trusting it.

Chuck, in the fantasy -- in the majority of the ways this fantasy unfolds before Sam's eyes -- lands in a range of emotions from fearful to uncomfortable to worried and all the way to loathing. He is still so incredible to Sam, but he is burdened in new ways. Sam can't imagine Chuck flat-out hating a kid or resenting what having a kid would do to his life. Chuck's too kind for that.

But he would worry more, in a life already packed to the brim with worry. He would fear for his child in the world and, no doubt, fear for what his own actions and his own history would do to a kid. He'd fear what the hunting would do to their family. He'd fear the day that Sam went out on a hunt and didn't make it home. He'd fear having to cram back into the bunker, with a devastated child, to have his family help him care for them.

And it's not what Chuck ever saw for himself. Not one of the landmarks he was ever aiming to visit.

Sam feels the same. He does, so fucking much.

But he feels like he has to make sure, over and over again, that he isn't depriving his husband of something vital, that would make him happy.

If starting a family was what would bring them joy or was what they _needed_ to feel whole and complete and alive, Sam would find his way there.

He would look at that image of Chuck with their child and see an actual face on it, see little fingers and toes, not just a blanketed bundle. And he would know all the things he could come to enjoy about that and he would let himself fall in love with the idea.

But, in the reality of their apartment, at the table, under the window, he is the guy who ferried a soul out of purgatory in his arm. He's the guy whose eyes turned black when he twisted The First Demon's being out of her meatsuit. He's the guy who gave Lucifer a ride with a steep fucking price and there are things he would take back, things he would do again, things he would undo, and things he would _still_ do, given a chance.

And the things he's already fallen in love with are sitting within reach. They're not fragile little breakable things, either. Much as he likes to think of Chuck being tiny and relying on him and _needing_ him, Chuck is a tough cookie and Sam really doesn't think he'd love him the same way if Chuck couldn't kick his ass as well as he could protect it.

He loves his family.  
He loves his husband.  
He loves work and the way it _rights things_ in the world.  
He loves learning and growing and that's never neat or easy.

Growing up, figuring shit out, getting it wrong and bouncing back - that's all rough. It's a lot of work. It's breakable and he's broken it. And he's fixed it. And he's gone on.

And there are things that he's unwilling to break.

Like an innocent's life. If it were born into a family like this, with a father like he would be.

Sam thinks he would be an okay dad.

He thinks it's also fucking irresponsible of him - inexcusable of him - to try to place a higher value on that theory than the child itself, who would be exposed to a world more gruesome than it might with a family where nobody ever personally made the acquaintance of a demon.

Or. You know. _Fucked one_ for about a year before letting her use him to _end the world_.

The image, then, that one with Chuck in the dim room. It makes him sad. Makes him uncomfortable.

It doesn't make him long for something he'll never have.

He lets it go, as he usually does.

It's not some biological clock bullshit.

It's probably not even that he didn't make their honeymoon romantic enough.

He hadn't formulated some epic travel plans for it because he wanted to go get muggle-married if the spell didn't work out. He didn't want anything getting in the way of actually being married to the person he--

Sam shoves everything aside and gets up. Goes to their room.

He takes the folded towels out of Chuck's hands and sets them on the dresser. He gathers Chuck close and palms his head and presses in. Kisses him, diving in, invading his mouth and dipping him back, bending him until he's nearly lost his footing. He flails for a second before clinging to Sam's shirt.

He wanted to just be married. At long last, married and secure in it and loved beyond reason.

Sam turns them to drag him up onto the bed and lay him out. He pushes him on and climbs on top of him without letting him question it at all.

Sucks at his mouth, tastes him with serious dedication. Throws off the static and the distractions and feels only the bed under them, the sunshine warming the space below the window, Chuck in his hands actively loving him, the soft meeting of the bind, sheets and pillows and adoring thoughts.

It seemed like their honeymoon ended with a whimper. Maybe he shouldn't have spoken to Dean so many times. Maybe they shouldn't have gone to conventions. Maybe maybe maybe.

He skids his hands up Chuck's arms where they circle him. His warm, soft skin.

For the rest of his life, he'll get to turn and have someone there agreeing and disagreeing with him. Working shit out. Helping him make decisions. Never lying to him.

He presses his awareness against the feel of the bind - against the place where they're pressed together.

A response in Chuck, an excited noise and a smile against his mouth.

Sam is putting a lot of effort into that and he's not getting much back on his end.

Chuck feels more of the bind than he does. They're feeling it differently, but when he _pours gallons_ of his adoration over to Chuck's side, he knows that Chuck can feel it.

He has to push Sam off of his mouth, now.

"Oh, Sammy. Oh, Sam," he breathes, pushing Sam's hair back. "Oh my god, I love you, too. Is that- that's what you were thinking, right? You were. The bind feels like-"

"Yeah. Oh, god, I really got you," he keeps feeling so fall-down relieved. He keeps having to remind himself and it's amazing every time. He straightens up and pushes at Chuck's shirt until he can pull it off over his head. "I don't care if you still have to fold your socks. Let me touch your back for a while and kiss you until you're lazy and then take you to the movies and hold your hand the whole damn time."

He sits up, obligingly, to hook his chin over Sam's shoulder and let his back be thumbed at in circles. "For dinner can we go someplace with soup?"

He could ask to rob a fucking bank and Sam would do it with enthusiasm right now but all he wants is soup. Fucking soup.

Sam feels for his spine and his eyes close in rapture. "I love you, sweetheart. I think marriage just means I get to skip out on my brotherly duties sometimes and I stab fewer bad guys and I get more sleep all so I can make out more and get laid and listen to you make this noise-" he digs into that one spot in Chuck's sides that makes his head fall back while he groan-moans. Sam kisses up his exposed throat and Chuck doesn't say anything, just hangs on tighter.

Because Chuck trusts him.

Give him a decade like this. Give him twenty, thirty years of this. It won't be enough. He wanted to start this years ago. This isn't some waiting period, some limbo. This is unstructured time between hunts, family obligations, and tradesman appointments installing things at the house. Unappointed time when he can just... grab his husband and rock his world.

So, basically, the honeymoon is never over. Whenever he doesn't have to be elsewhere? That's where they'll be.

Settling down is a great idea. He'll have someplace to put his stuff and new rooms to have sex in. He can capture every flavor of Chuck against different walls and in different lights and at different times of day and at different volumes depending on their surroundings. Locked doors to do this behind.

And the road to make it special. The road right outside the door and coming back home off the road and knowing where the road ends. Settle into a honeymoon anytime they're not saving lives and making the world a better place.

Oh, god.

He wants to have sex on their front porch.

He'll close the gate and sit on the steps with Chuck on his lap so they don't get too dirty.

He has a future, he has _plans_ , he's got stuff to do.

Well, he's got one very important person to do. And some other stuff.

It already started. It started when he put the last box in the car back at the bunker. It started when Chuck asked him not to go this week and kissed him. It started when Sam first thought, _I wonder if he's single_.

"We can do soup. I've got the rest of the week planned out. That okay?"

"Mmm," Chuck's mouth presses to his collar, still smiling a little. Pleased.

This is a win. A true win. He's got this one covered.

When he lays him out and pumps their hips together, this is a victory. A continued celebration of what they earned together.

When he rinses Chuck off in the shower and takes him out for the day, takes him to dinner, brings him home sleepy, that's when Sam's busy working.

No in-between time. Nothing left unsettled. Just a different definition of settling. One that _settles_ in the idea of maybe not knowing which town they'll be in from week to week, or if they'll be writing, teaching, fighting, researching, building, or what.

Chuck wants to do projects with him. They have plans. They like to start new things and keep working towards goals they can't even see in the distance.

On some whisper from the past, Chuck prompted the hunt through Bobby's storage lockers that gave him the book that gave him a basis to ask Sam to marry him.

He didn't know it would actually work. He didn't know he'd end up right here, someday, with rings on his fingers and forever to look forward to.

So. Next project on the list.

After Sam gets him settled in bed that night, he packs half their stuff until Chuck sighs, puts the tablet aside. "When will my husband discover the massive bed in the middle of the room?"

He perks. "Coming." Zips the second bag up and kicks everything to the side, closes it out with the rest of the apartment. Shuts off the light. He gets in and wanders up the lumps of Chuck's body in the sheets to get to his face. "There you are."

"Hi. I thought you'd never find me."

"My hunting proficiency is undeniable."

"The keenest observational skills and the most honed of senses. You know what I want right now?"

"Youuuuu... want me to push my alarms back to 8 a.m., you wanna be the little spoon, and you want to go get lemon pound cake for breakfast in the morning."

Chuck is a lump of stunned silence for a while as Sam gathers him up into his arms.  
"Well. I mean. Good job. What are the, um, chances of any of that happening?"

"Roughly 20%, 100%, and 60%, respectively."

"So you're saying there's _a chance_ you'll sleep a little later but _a better chance_ that I'll get cake."

"And a guarantee of the other thing. As I've demonstrated," Sam squeezes him.

Chuck settles in. "I can work with this."

And that's the only "settling" that either of them is really interested in doing.

«»

Chuck needs new clothes. Sam has decided this and nothing much has changed his mind. He had flip-flops but broke them and tossed them in a motel trash bin in Ohio and he has one pair of shorts that are unaccountably paint-stained and Sam kind of hates them to an unreasonable degree. Sometimes Chuck will wear them in the apartment and Sam just hasn't asked why he's got paint on them but it acts as a reminder that there are swaths of Chuck's past that are probably mundane and normal but which Sam can only say he knows fuck-all about.

They don't go to warm places that often but he wants to. He wants vacations and casual exploring and so they're gonna buy some goddamn shorts. The summer sales should all be starting or something. The bathing suits and sandals should be on the racks.

And Chuck can construct the house with him in cruddy old clothes and toss them or in new shorts and paint a brand new history all over them.

He drives them to Minneapolis. On the way, he has Chuck explain the pieces of his family a little more.

"So," he tries to get this straight, "Betty is the one who still talks to you."

Chuck hesitates. "Sometimes. When she's got it in her mind that things aren't perfect and she wants to sort of drag me back into the circle."

"Drag you?"

"I mean. It's not that bad. She does still talk to me. I should maybe be better about that. But I get the sense, after we see each other, that mine isn't a missing piece so much as a broken piece. And that I'm fine where I am. Like sometimes she'll get it into her head that she misses what our family used to be like and then she'll... organize something? And everyone will make it harder for her to get them in one place than she expected." He waves a hand. "I donno. Half the time it's mom's influence, anyway. And she."

Chuck goes silent for a long time, most of a mile. Sam looks over. "You okay?"

"I don't miss my mom. God. That makes me such a crappy guy. I have-- she's so." Chuck takes a breath and won't turn to meet Sam's glances when he looks away from the road. "She was so disappointed in me. The last time she had anything good to say was when-" Chuck is quiet for a moment. "None of this matters. I'm dead. It's probably better this way."

Sam didn't mean to open a box of scorpions. But now he's itching to know what's so fucking wrong with Chuck's mom. It's hard to imagine, even when Chuck was just, as he describes it, "a self-absorbed drunk, high on cult fame," that a mom with a family that wide - a mom who valued family - would let Chuck drift off if there wasn't some kind of driving force propelling them away from each other.

"What did she do?" Sam finally asks, baffled.

"It's not- it's not anything she did, it's- it's fine. She's fine. You'd probably like her, I. I'm just not a good son and I didn't make an effort to-"

The van in front of them on the road has a trailer hitched up to it with a bunch of pieces of furniture precariously bungeed in and it's at that moment that a tall, white lamp decides to make a jump for it when the tires go over a pothole.

Sam swerves out of the way and dodges around the trailer as the van comes to a sudden stop. Luckily no one is in the opposite lane and he can just overtake the van and they get away unscathed, even as a shelf loosens up and tilts over the side of the trailer.

"Holy fuck," Sam breathes.

"Shit! Should we stop??"

Sam looks in the rear view, pulling off to the side.

They turn to watch.

Five people pile out of the van and scramble to gather everything again.

"They could fucking pull off to the side," Chuck motions like, _lookit these fuckers_.

Sam's a little pissed, too. "I think they can handle it."

He puts the car back in drive and signals, turns to ease back into the lane, empty up here, cars stacking up way behind the van.

"Geeze," Chuck clunks back into his seat.

Sam is reminded with a weird clarity of the way the battery crapped out when he was gonna skip the trip to mom.

A lamp almost came through the car's grill.

"Hey," Sam says after another few silent moments. "Tell me what your mom did that made it hard to speak to her."

Chuck's quiet. "Technically it's what I did."

Sam isn't a total idiot. He knows the sound of Chuck's guilt and he knows a sign when he sees one. He's seen too damn many to ignore them. "You know I'm always going to be 100% completely biased and unfair and my only loyalty is to Team Chuck, right? I mean, you do know who you're talking to?"

Chuck is reluctant but sighs. "I told her- I blamed her for having so many kids. She asked why I was so fucked up and I told her it was because she liked babies so damn much that she forgot parenting was part of the deal. Which. Which is crap. I'm the only one who turned out like this. Bitter and addicted and inept-"

"Stop," Sam orders.

"She asked-" he sighs again. "She said I'd change my mind when I had kids and I told her I wouldn't ever be having any and that's like. That's like a cardinal sin in her eyes. It made me even more of an idiot to her. And she asked what the fuck I expected to do with the rest of my life if not that and. No matter what I said? Not even if I told her I was gonna... open a fucking food bank or become a doctor or what. No matter what I responded to that, my stance on kids made my life a useless fucking empty shell to her. It meant she failed. My being a failure meant that she failed."

Sam banishes his dumbass bi-monthly fantasy in that moment. Just to satisfy some animal need for the image, he'd been grafting Chuck into a place he wouldn't choose for himself.

He thinks he lost the love and respect of his mother because he doesn't want to give her grandchildren. If that's true, if that's actually the way she feels, his mom is the asshole, not Chuck.

"Sweetheart? That doesn't make you a bad son. It just makes you different. She-"

"If she knew about this?" Chuck motions between them, "She'd be even--." He stops. Deliberately. He doesn't finish the thought. "It doesn't matter. I'm dead. Even if she's changed her mind since then, it doesn't matter. I can't speak to any of them."

He doesn't sound sad about it, just sounds like he's at a loss.

Sam really doesn't know how to feel about that. If Chuck were sad or angry, he could say something, do something. But Chuck is always phenomenally neutral when it comes to his family. They're a list of names, places, times, and events to him. He blames himself for things as much as he ever blames them. Not that he doesn't get a little emotional about it - he's trying to stare out at the passing scenery right now, but Sam can feel a twisted tightness to the bind, like a pit in his gut. Chuck's family fucks him up - Chuck's family _fucked_ him up, too, past-tense.

As broken as he got crawling away from them and into a bottle, Sam would rather know this person than the version of Chuck who might actually have let his family break him and turn him into an obedient, unhappy shell.

Not creating further generations of Shurleys isn't what makes him a shell. He is very whole. He is whole, here, with Sam. They are both whole. It's important to them both to feel like two whole individuals in control of their own hearts and minds.

"You can tell me when this stuff makes you feel-" Sam shakes his head. "You're not overreacting. I'm on your team. What she said to you was wrong. It will always be wrong," he says, decisive. "You shouldn't have felt unwelcome in your family because of that."

Chuck clamps his hands between his knees. "I'm the one who turned my back. I'm the one who didn't bend. Who didn't make nice and just smile and nod."

"You wouldn't be you if you had done that. You don't need to bend who you are or pretend to be--" Sam's just baffled. "She's your _mom_."

"And dad shared her opinion," Chuck tosses a hand. Still won't look at Sam. "I was outvoted."

"You can't be outvoted out of who you are. Or voted out of your family, for that matter. I'm on your team and I say that was bullshit. Whatever happened to you deciding everything is bullshit, anyway? You used to know when to blow people off when they're jerks."

Chuck finally smiles. "I feel kinda like if you marry the guy who died for the world you can't be so flippant anymore."

Sam sighs. Extends his hand. Chuck takes it.

The bind tells him that Chuck is stinging. Fuck this shit.

"We're going shopping," he finally tells Chuck his plan. "I want you to feel as beautiful as you are and as new as we are. And we'll find a place to get your hair cut by a professional - because you need it by now. And then I wanna go work on the house for my birthday."

"Huh," Chuck says. "What about you? What about your scruffy face?"

"Mm. It's been fine but I don't really wanna keep it. Dean always says I look like I'm hiding a weak chin when I go like this?"

Chuck laughs. "You don't. But I like seeing your face. I'll be glad to have it back."

Sam smiles, "Works for me."

"I haven't had time to sneak around and buy you presents. Can't buy anything online anymore. What should I do for you on your birthday?"

"You don't have to get me anything. You're gonna help me buy jackets and you married me. You do a lot."

Chuck's quiet for a while. "I know what I'm gonna get for you."

"Will it be a surprise? You wanna go to a mall and split up for a while?"

"Maybe. I'll think about it. Maybe I'm slicker than you think." He squeezes Sam's hand and it's almost like that clicks something off.

The bind goes blank. Like he's alone again. As clean and clear as if the wedding never even happened.

It's. Well. It's not jarring. It's sudden. But it's not like a welcome reprieve. He's been trying to integrate these feelings and this insight into his life more. He's been trying to keep their whole open communication thing WAY open. He wants absolute clarity. He wants to Never Shut Up, just like they planned. He doesn't want to have to think of songs really loud to block Chuck out. This silence - this absence. It's just. It feels like ten steps in reverse.

"Wow. Uh. Please don't do that!" he finally stutters.

Chuck lets up and the connection comes back and it feels a little bolder than before.

"Fuck," Sam breathes. "Yeah. I mean. Very talented. That was- yeah, but. Can you please not do that again?"

"Sorry. I thought you might like it sometimes. If you need-"

"Mmmmmno," Sam tugs on his hand to bring Chuck to lean against him. "You can keep plenty to yourself in the first place. My signal from you isn't that strong so I'd kinda like to keep what I have."

Chuck slumps his head into him and takes a big breath. "I won't do that again."

"Thank you. I mean it about shopping. I know we buy pieces here and there but my clothes are getting pretty ratty and you deserve new stuff."

"Your clothes are getting bloodstained and thrown out," Chuck corrects.

"Even my nice anniversary jeans," Sam laments.

"Ohhh. Right. I remember the place in Minneapolis with the-"

"Tall clothes, yeah. It's as good as the place in Texas."

"Okay. Can we stop soon? I gotta pee."

"Do you know how much I love you and your tiny bladder?"

"You like to load an entire cooler with Ikea juice boxes and water and iced coffees and OJ and you tell me drink water! Drink water! Drink water! And then-"

"I know!" Sam laughs. "It's just funny that Dean and I can drive for a half day but I stop every two hours with you!"

"You keep telling me to drink! You feed me endless drinks!"

"I want you to be well-hydrated," he smiles.

"I want more of the juice boxes, by the way," Chuck mumbles. "The red ones."

"We’ll stop at the Ikea in Twin Cities."

"I really want the-"

"I know and I don't care." He will not negotiate over the damn Capri Suns and the damn sugar substitutes unless he wants to switch to fucking organic stevia or something.

Chuck is quiet. Tangles the hand he's holding. "Thanks for looking out for my corn syrup intake and my stupid small bladder."

"Thanks for not being the obedient drone your mom wanted. There's only one place for shells in your life."

"I know what one of your presents is gonna be."

"Cool."

«»

They go to some shopping centers and then a mall.

Sam buys Chuck a new jacket he wants to wear right away and so they yank the tags and go to the food court and Chuck looks like new. Sam keeps taking pictures of him. He says they're so he knows what he looks like as he's trying things on but eventually Chuck starts doing dumb poses like he seems to have decided not to mind it.

Chuck has a good eye when it comes to finding clothes for Sam. It's always been such a hassle to find quality stuff on his own, he's settled a lot in his life. He has to remind Chuck that, no, he does not mind that Chuck is capable of helping him so intuitively. Chuck knows his tastes and his tags alike. It's like a shopping shortcut.

Chuck comes to the dressing room and shoves stuff under the door and Sam rolls his eyes, opens the door, yanks him in. "Husband, not shopping buddy. You're allowed to see me undressed, remember?"

Chuck crosses his arms. "Well, I knew that. I was just giving you space."

In the last store, yeah, sure, maybe. In this fitting room, though? Sam has to laugh. It's almost as big as their bathroom in the apartment.

"I'm trying not to think sexy thoughts in public. Fitting rooms are gross."

"Well, that does make sense," Sam allows. He's inclined to mess around just because he always is, but fitting rooms really are all kinds of nasty.

They keep shopping until they technically have too much. Sam gets shorts and sandals for him just as planned and he's pretty sure Chuck snuck off for stuff for his birthday when he claims he was browsing. He got an extra credit card on one of the fake accounts but he hasn't had a reason to hand it over yet, and he notices (eventually) that, somewhere in all the times he's been undressed, it's been plucked out of his pocket.

They go to get a really late dinner at a decent restaurant and it's only then that he notices how much the day and the environment have worn on Chuck.

He looks wiped out.  
And then someone back in the kitchen drops a stack of plates.

The room erupts into applause as one waiter comes out, red-faced, to ask for help with some cleanup.

Sam claps out of habit. That's just always how it works.

Across from him, Chuck has clamped his eyes closed and is white-knuckle gripping the edge of the table.

Sam has no idea what it is - if he's about to drown in a memory or if this is going to be a low-key or full-blown episode.

He reaches to Chuck's hand, gets up and moves around the table to stoop next to him. "Hey, Chuck."

A flutter from the bind, straight into his ribs. A twitch in their soft curtains and a flash like headlights in a window at night.

Sam pries his hand off the table. "Hey, talk to me-"

Chuck yanks his hand away.  
He opens his eyes, panting for breath now.

There's a clatter from them sweeping up the broken plates. Chuck clamps his hands over his ears.

"Fuck," Sam adds his hands on top.

The people at the table behind them are trying not to get caught staring. He shoots them just one glare to cow them and turns back to come in close. He puts their foreheads together for a long moment until Chuck blinks.

"Car," Sam says. He pulls his hands away to mime a steering wheel.

Chuck closes his eyes again. But then he pulls his hands down and tugs his jacket closer around himself and nods.

Sam kisses his head and pulls out his chair. Chuck stands slowly and makes his way out the front.

The feeling over the bind speeds up his breath.

He almost turns directly into their server.

Which is convenient, actually. He can ask for a box and the check. He wouldn't have let Chuck leave alone if he had cash on him.

When he's got Dean for a day, they need to step out and hustle some. All the cash he's had in the past month was some that he pickpocketed off a vendor at FoodieCon who was obliterated drunk and had scoffed at one of Sam's questions earlier in the day.

He gets out to the car as fast as possible and forgets he didn't hand Chuck the keys. His own are in his bag in the car. He's huddled on the ground next to the front tire, wound tight and with his hands over his ears again. Sam steps heavily so he opens his eyes and it's not a shock when Sam steps in front of him and gathers him up.

He just kneels there and rocks them for a while, ignoring any other movement in the parking lot, the styrofoam box cooling on the car hood.

"Today was too busy. You've been around too many people lately."

The words must filter into Chuck, his hands wouldn't completely block them out. He was stressed from all the busyness and crowds and then the plates broke and the splinters and shards flashed out, embedding in his mind. The sound of tumblers crashing on the kitchen floor, bottles of booze or whatever jagged pieces of glass Zachariah handed him to dig into his own skin until the writing resumed.

"I can feel it in my jaw," Chuck's voice shakes. He's said something like that before. When he called Sam after buying some beers at the mini-mart. He couldn't get the sound of glass out of his head. It goes in his ears and resonates in his bones and drills into his skull and sinks into his jaw where it just sits and tortures him.

Crashing glass or the twisting, grinding sound of broken pieces. Sam knows how windows blow out in the presence of incorporeal angels. He knows the kinds of destruction Chuck has witnessed and he knows that his _babysitter_ hung around and gave it a more personal touch. Chuck can hear that higher frequency, he can hear the pitched Enochian songs that hail their arrival before other humans can. Their speech comes in clear to him like it would to someone chosen as a vessel and open as a host - as a willing meatsuit. Like Jim Novak described it.

Chuck needs this noise out of his head.

Sam takes his arms, pulls Chuck's head to rest his right ear to his chest and keeps the other covered. Chuck can feel his voice resonating in his chest and his heart beating that way.

"Okay, so, just listen to me. I'll give it a minute and then I'm gonna put you in the car and we can turn on the radio and you can listen to something else. But we're in no hurry, I promise. Just listen to me and tell me when you're ready." Sam rambles and tries to hear a song in his head - some Nirvana is all he can conjure at the moment and he lets the tune go in his head, hoping it will cross the bind to Chuck like earworms sometimes do. "You're just fine, you're only a little tired and stressed out from all the driving yesterday and all the people today and the dressing rooms were hot and bright and smelled like BO. It's okay though. I think I have a card that can handle a charge for a real hotel room and we can have fresh, clean everything and we can sit in a big tub and just listen to the water. Would that be okay?"

Chuck nods.

"I have your food and you can eat it later. I'm sorry that jumped into your head like that. I should have gotten a room and let you nap. But we'll fix it, now. We'll be quiet and look at my silly pictures of you and I'll wrap you up in your new robe and put your new scarf around you and you'll look comfortably sophisticated..."

Sam just goes on, talking whatever nonsense crosses his brain, until Chuck touches his wrist. He lets his other ear go, lets him lean away.

"Climb up," Sam holds his arms out. Chuck lets himself be lifted and Sam gets him into the passenger seat.

He only leaves him for the moment it takes to dash around to the other side and get in. He finds a radio station playing what sounds like a house mix and it's unfamiliar so he leaves it on.

Chuck reaches to dig through a bag and he comes up with a paperback book and just flips the pages next to his ear.

Sam doesn't ask, just adds the din of the engine to the cacophony as he starts the car.

«»

Chuck sits in the tub and rocks, splishing the water rhythmically while Sam sits next to the bath and reads to him. He asked to hear Sam, he asked just to hear him. With the door closed, the water and his words and the papery turning of pages echoes in a way that finally seems to flush the sound of breaking glass out of Chuck's jaw so he's dozing.

Sam keeps reading until he's well asleep. Then he lifts Chuck's head to wedge a towel between him and the wall and he continues reading aloud. Goes for another hour until he can feel the sweep of pages through the bind, signaling Chuck's dream state.

He lays the book aside and he stares.

"I feel like I failed you," he says out loud. His natural voice sounds a lot different than his reading voice to him. "I wanna open up the bind and walk inside and get my answers. I wanna know why you can have so much of it and I can't. I wanna know why you could protect me from Cas but I'm not allowed to protect you from dinner plates."

He flips the pages of the book.

"Fucking _dinner plates_ ," he hisses. "This is. This wasn't memories. This wasn't someone else stepping in front of you. This was. This was PTSD. Like when you called and called me but didn't leave messages and I got there and you had little vodka soldiers all lined in a row and you were sleeping on your couch and I had to break in. When it's not somebody else's memories drowning you out, it's your own memories of those memories fucking planting little grenades in your head and I hate it. I'm so fucking." He shakes his head. Drops his chin to the edge of the tub. "I can't save you. I can protect you from the outside but not the inside. Actually I _can't_ protect you from the outside," he amends. "Damn dinner plates. You're gonna be cold soon. I love you. You're gonna be all wrinkly. I love you. God, I love you. I have to figure this out faster. I have to extend myself somehow. So I can stop this before it gives you a heart attack or something. I gotta love you better. I gotta make your body understand that Zach can't get to you anymore. Nothing bad is gonna happen to you from the outside. Inside is still a problem. I'm working on it. Maybe the bind really didn't hold right. Maybe we have a half-ass bind."

He's quiet for a while and Chuck doesn't move. His breath sends ripples across the water and his knees have slipped from his grip a little.

"I'm not missing anything with you. I thought maybe I have such a fucked-up life that it was making us miss out on steps. Fuck steps. I'll haul you up with a rope, I don't care. I hate your mom. I think my mom would hate your mom. I think she wanted you to tell me the truth without feeling bad about it first. You don't deserve to. I'm sorry I won't tell you this when you're conscious, but fuck your mom. I don't care about babies. The first time one shrieked in your arms and it rang in your ears and camped out in your jaw, I would hate it. I would hate myself for doing that to you. God, I wanna give you peace. I wish I was big enough to block out the others and let you keep your own head to yourself. And maybe me."

Chuck shifts in the water.

Sam takes his shirts off and stands, shucks his jeans.

He reaches in to pull the plug and, when the water's low enough, he pulls Chuck forward, gets a towel around him. He wakes up when the drain pulls the last of the water down in a thick sound. He helps dry off except for all the kissing. His mouth moves slow up Sam's shoulder. He stands and lets Sam help him out.

Sam offers him his boxers and a shirt and then ushers him to bed. Fresh, neutral sheets and a single soft light on.

"Sorry I woke you up," he kisses Chuck's head, tucking him in.

"Sorry I freaked out."

"I take it back. I'm not sorry about it and you're not sorry about it. Nobody's sorry, it's just what _is_. It's just me taking care of you and doing what somebody does when their husband hurts. Okay?"

Chuck doesn't argue. Sam wraps him in one of the sheets and wraps himself outside of it.

"Thank you," Chuck turns for another kiss before he drifts back off.

Sam keeps talking until he's dreaming again. He talks about what they'll be building and writing and he talks into Chuck's hair about fantasies. Not babies or college or retirement. But making love to him on their land, blowing him in an airplane bathroom and walking out to mortifying applause, breaking into a museum and fucking in front of world-class works of art, dismissing them and coveting only the person he walked in with. He wants to screw around after battles, sweaty and cut up. He wants comfort after death and celebration after victory. He doesn't think they ought to just celebrate anniversaries. They ought to have annual honeymoons. Every year for years-and-years, "Because you're gonna live so much longer than you're supposed to," he says. And he repeats it until he believes it. Holds his husband tighter and knows how lucky he is.

«»

"Hey," Chuck touches his face when he wakes up. "You gonna do this today?"

He's been debating it. It felt comfortable and lazy while they were on their honeymoon, and he's really had no excuse since then. It just feels like, when his beard comes off, their time alone will end. He suspects he'll be calling Dean up soon, for some reason.

"Hey," Chuck repeats. Catches his eyes. "Want me to do it for you?" he looks a little nervous to offer but. It's such a wonderful idea.

Fuck. Fuck yes. He frowns, big and comical. "Take care of me?"

"Mm," Chuck nods. "Am I... allowed to," he traces his fingers on the sides of Sam's face. "Sideburns?"

Sam considers for a moment, actually a little doubtful. "I can, um-"

"Pointy ones??" Chuck looks so hopeful.

"Well. Uh. I'll do them. You can do the rest and I'll do that part."

"But _pointy ones??_ "

Yeah. He forgets sometimes that this is his biggest fan.

He closes his eyes and grins. "Pointy ones. Promise."

"Okay. Good morning," they kiss.

"'Morning, sweetheart. You ready to head to the lot?"

"Yeah," he touches Sam's scruff while he still can.

"How are your ears?" Sam asks after a pause.

"Empty. Better than they were. Thanks. I just." A breath shudders out of him. "I heard like six awful things at once. I really. It was just a really long day."

"I know. I love you. I try not to let that happen, but-"

"It's okay. I'm okay," Chuck whispers. He touches Sam's lips like he wants to be kissed again.

Sam decides to kiss him all over. Exchange fuzzy kisses and then trail down his skin.

It's the ones on his thighs that get him hard. Sam strokes him so he can keep kissing him. He hums against his skin as he goes and tells him how good he tastes and asks where he should go next.

Chuck hiccups answers and cries out so Sam knows he's hearing them and nothing else. No shattering voices or broken glasses.

Only this.

«»

Chuck gives him hickies for his birthday instead of the other way around, this year. Sam stays pinned to the bed for an hour moaning under him, savoring the bites and he gets to tell Chuck to try again when they don't go dark enough. He marvels. Thanks him and thanks him and then Chuck doesn't let him rise. He makes him stay exactly where he is while he opens himself and rides him. He tells Sam in detail exactly what his cock does to him and how he's gonna make Sam come and... well, it's super effective because all it takes is Chuck talking absolute filth.

While Sam's passed out, Chuck takes his wallet and the car and goes to the grocery store to buy pints of ice cream for lunch. Sam wakes up to the smell of coffee and they share a spoon, trying the three different flavors he picked up.

Sam wants to go to the house for his birthday, but they take their time getting there.

April showers have made a soggy mess of their lot.

After wandering for a while, Chuck drags him over and points, high up on one of the beams. "What is that?" he demands, looking kinda... grief-stricken or something.

Sam gets a ladder and Chuck seems to hold his breath the whole time until Sam comes back down again, to wipe the mess off his screwdriver. "It was just an old web with bugs in it," he reports.

Chuck leans over on his knees and pants to get his oxygen back.

"Sweetheart?" Sam puts a hand on his shoulder.

"I thought we left it too long. I thought we had mold."

The panic is completely genuine. They put tarps up at his insistence - Dean was just going to leave things for whenever they got back. But now Sam can see this is a worry he's harboring close and serious.

Sam has materials from a mold-proofing guy at the convention. He brought all the pamphlets and stuff. He wanted to work with just Chuck for a few days, but.

Sam crouches next to him. "Okay. I understand that this is going too slow and I get why that would worry you. You want me to call Dean and see if everybody wants to come up and spend a few weeks helping us?"

Chuck looks to him finally, rattled. "Would you really be okay with that? I know you kinda still wanted-"

"I'm totally fine with it, yeah. Dean will be pretty thrilled, too."

"I know. Okay, yeah," Chuck shakes his head and straightens up. "Call him."

Dean answers the phone on speaker with absolutely EVERYONE in the background yelling "Happy birthday!!!"

Then he's the one who actually gives Dean a gift: Sam tells him the wait is over - he wants his brother back.

He relays the small panic that Chuck had to Dean. He doesn't get flippant about it, thankfully. And he's eager to pack up and meet them in South Dakota. Of course, Sam's pretty sure he's still worried that Sam is gonna hit some point where he decides that they can't call and visit anymore so he's probably just thrilled to be asked.

He doesn't need to worry about that. The next morning, some wonderful excitement rises in Sam when he hears the Impala out front and he grins opening the gate and letting them in.

Claire and Charlie are in the back seat. This will be their first time seeing the place. It thrills him even more.

"Where's my little bro, bro?" Charlie chirps.

Claire just yells, "CHUCK!!" across the property, getting out.

Cas closes the passenger door and puts a hand on her shoulder, points to the maintenance bay where their car is parked. "Be nice," he says, like that'll help.

Dean points the car to the other side of the house, by the fence and Sam follows, wanders after the slow crawl and the growl that thrums through him.

Dean gets out of the Impala silently and they lean together for a while, staring at the house's bones.

He knocks sideways, into Sam. "The evil sideburns are back. How's the mind-meld?"

Sam sighs. "Not as big a deal as I was expecting. Nice, honestly. But kinda not a big deal. Feels pretty normal at this point except when things get extra clear."

"How does that work?" Dean pulls out gum and offers him some.

"Um. We have to be close. Or Chuck has to be really shocked by something." Dean nods and Sam itches for a minute. He's gotta add, "Like it happened when we met um." He clears his throat. "We stopped at a coffee shop and one of his exes was there."

"Woah. Holy shit," Dean blinks at him.

Sam wavers.

Dean gets it. "Hm. Not hot?"

Sam considers. "I would... uh. Not _built_. Wouldn't even break a sweat. His ass would be grass."

"Guy?"

"Mm."

"Not hot for a guy?"

"Think Ewan McGregor."

"Dude."

"Young Ewan McGregor. Like. _Black Hawk Down_."

"Oh." Dean pauses. "I mean. If you're into that kind of-"

"Pretty, maybe, but I had to try not to break him on accident just shaking his hand."

Dean shrugs. "No contest. Proud of yourself?" he elbows him.

"Well, I mean." He considers. "Yeah. I was on my honeymoon, dude, and two fucking people came after my husband. I've kinda got this on lock. He didn't give them a second look. This one motherfucker- he gave us a free dinner at his fucking restaurant and Chuck didn't look twice. I mean, I know you don't care, but my game is tight. Nobody comes close. I'm the man," he finally says it out loud.

Dean considers this for a long time, mildly dubious. But then he decides, "No, you know what?" He offers his hand for a high-five. "Damn right."

"Thank you," Sam agrees. It's really nice to finally have conversations like this without Dean dancing around his sexuality.

"That's me," Dean declares, "I raised you right."

"I don't give a fuck. I'll break the next head that turns at my husband."

"Damn straight. Hey, those fucking fairies - they were cleaning up when Charlie and me got to their stupid realm. Seriously -- Cas gave 'em the what-for before they drugged him. He was defending my honor and shit. They saw me again? Whew. They were _terrified_."

"Damn right they were," Sam agrees.

"People fear the fuck out of my angel."

"That's how you like it."

"That's how I like it," Dean agrees. "We're kicking ass in our old age."

"You've got a house full of teenagers and you're ruining bastards."

"You're a happily-married-ass, bleeding-heart liberal and you're wrecking the reputations of lesser men."

"Rolling over the suburbs in gas-guzzlers and keeping our guns clean and helping the kids with their homework," Sam agrees. "Hey. Speaking of which?" he points to where their car is. "Eating through batteries."

"Want me to look at it?"

"Nah, I want a pick-up," he shrugs. "For construction. But a tall one."

"Tall one," Dean considers. "Yeah, I'll find you a tall truck. I have a good idea of a town to look. Get the keys off a guy while he's drinking or something."

"Thanks."

"Chuck's worried about mold?"

"Got some ideas?"

"Yeah."

"Me, too. I did research."

"Mold," Dean mulls this over.

"It really freaked him out. He had an apartment with mold once and he almost got pneumonia."

"Gross. What kinda research did you do?"

"We wanted to study for our house so we went to a home-and-garden convention."

"Huh. You keep him from straying by going on hot honeymoon dates like that?"

"Shut up, I'm doing you a favor not going into the other details."

Dean throws his hands up. "Alright. What did you learn?"

«»

There's mold-resistant wood and drywall. It's blue and Chuck wants it. So that's what Dean agrees to use from now on. Claire climbs the house and the trees and the ladders without supervision and bumps her head twice. Only falls out of a tree once.

Charlie measures the yard and the distance to the creek and asks what blessings Cas already set into the foundation. She looks into a security system and lights. The lights come in and are installed by the end of the week.

They're motion-activated and very bright. Chuck loves them.

"But we may have to angle them away from the windows when we move in."

They really won't. Charlie planned for that. When the house is all connected and the alarms wired up, the guy will take care of the lights.

Chuck mostly likes that it means they can stay late doing detail work when the rest of the family has left for the day.

And, since they're left all alone into the early hours of morning, Sam has managed to have sex with him in four different rooms so far. They don't even look like proper rooms yet, but Sam _knows_. He will know for all time.

The family leaves after dinner, they two stay a while after, Sam and Chuck have sex, Sam bundles him into the car, Sam takes him back to the motel to sleep. It's a nice routine and they sustain it for almost two weeks. Long enough that they have construction lamps and lawn chairs and a makeshift table in the main room and they're almost ready for the roof.

Charlie gets wind of a hunt and sends Josie, Krissy, and Aiden ahead to start scoping it out. But then it's serious enough to require her presence.

"I'm taking Claire," she says. "We'll be over in Pennsylvania. And we'll call if we need to. But I want you guys to keep working." It's an order.

Dean sends them off nervously.  
Sam is a little relieved.

Chuck was getting used to the noise again but Sam wants it quieter for him in the off hours and he wants Cas to finish the sigil set he's working on before they encapsulate it with the roof.

That would have gone perfectly to plan - they got longer ladders and ordered roof shingles and Cas finished up another bucket of red paint--

But his brother had to goddamn go looking for trouble.

"The trouble would be there whether or not Dean went looking to find the news article," Chuck reasons. "And you know that more people are bound to get hurt the longer you let it lie," he's sitting on the motel bed with Sam down on the floor, sitting between his knees and a little pissed off.

Less and less pissed as Chuck digs his fingers into his hair and hypnotically scritches at his head.

"Do you wanna go get lunch and I'll pack up?" he offers.

"We were getting _so much done_ ," Sam protests one more time.

"Sammy. I know. It was amazing, though, it was more than I even hoped for. Thank you. You guys are the ones who majorly busted your asses. But the damage down in Colorado looks real bad. Dean didn't just make this up. There are two hunts right now and if you don't want Dean and Cas going on their own-"

"I know," he turns to whine into Chuck's knee.

Chuck laughs at him. "When we're all moved in and teaching the kids, you'll be able to send them and not your own achy bones. I promise."

Sam stays there a few more minutes. Then crawls up and pulls Chuck so he can feel his fuzzy face at the crook of his neck.

This is part of the reason he has to go. The world still has to be saved to protect his family.

He loves the soft way this feels. He wants to be tired from working on the house, not from running and bleeding.

He wanted to have sex in the kitchen.

Sam sighs. Maybe Chuck will enjoy it better when it looks more like a kitchen. Maybe they're almost to a stopping point and it's time to go hunt for a little while.

"Okay," he grumbles. "I'll pack. Go tell Dean and he can pack, too, while you and Cas grab lunch."

"You haven't hunted in a month," Chuck says into his skin. "There's that, at least."

Yeah. It's not like the peace could really last. But, after the wedding, they did have some quiet. He got to keep Chuck safe and away from danger for that long.

He can hunt. It will probably feel good to stop these deaths and bag another win.

Not as good as it will feel to finally hand Chuck the keys to his own home, but that's still a ways off. And, for now, Chuck keeps one of the keys to the gate. Sam keeps the other. It's what they have.

«»

It's both a good thing and a bad thing that their connection isn't fully psychic or completely communicative at all times.

It's a bad thing because, if he could speak to Chuck's brain, he'd be able to tell him where they are. That they're not gonna make it to the signal point.

It's a good thing because Chuck would be rolling his eyes.

Sam's strapped to a chair again.

Dean is, too, so.  
There's that.

He struggles at Sam's back. "Don't you fucking come near me with that shit."

"It's not for you," the acolyte says.

She rounds far enough for Sam to see her. She points at him, her hand dripping, raised out of a bowl of animal blood. "It's for him. He's bigger. He'll do my master's bidding well."

Gross.

Fucking hell.

She puts the bowl on a table and says her words. Scoops another handful of it and funnels it into her mouth.

She comes to straddle him and he tries to get a leg free to fucking knee her. Tries to struggle his neck free but the rope draws tighter.

Dean starts calling her a bitch, trying to get her attention but it doesn't work at all.

She grabs Sam's jaw open to kiss the blood into his mouth and she starts choking.

Trips off, falls away, claws at her throat.  
Tries to scream.

But then she's dropped on the ground with thin tendrils of smoke floating out of her mouth.

And a char visible across her neck, down to the base of her throat.

She just dropped dead. But the moment was extended and horrible.

She fried from the inside.

Maybe her god wasn't happy with her methods.

"Sammy?"

"Uh. Don't ask me. I have no idea."

"Geeze. Well, quick. She left the knife next to the roadkill. I think we both gotta move forward. On my count. Ready?"

There's no need to rush, it turns out. No one else comes for them.

They get free and Sam looks, disgusted, down the front of his shirt where she dribbled blood as she coughed.

"Fucking witches. So gross," Dean grimaces.

"Can we not say anything about the chairs?" Sam goes to turn the body over and figure out what happened to her.

"Why? Because Chuck will make fun of your dumb ass?"

He glares over his shoulder at his brother.

Who only grins.

They let her lie. Sometimes the hunts end themselves. If her god really was pissed at her, honoring her with the dignity of a proper burial will probably only bring on more trouble.

Instead of sending the backup signal, they just tromp across the wide field themselves, back to Cas and Chuck.

But they're nowhere. And a puddle of blood sits where they ought to be.

Sam and Dean both draw their guns and move slow into the trees, through to the other clearing, toward the car, alert at every noise.

Until they hear the low rumble of a voice.

Dean mimes once, the loop of a halo.  
Sam nods, agreeing Cas is who he hears.

They move northwest, toward him.  
But there's nothing tense in his voice. Or strained.

They get back to the car and Cas is helping Chuck into the back seat.

All Sam sees is his husband covered in blood.

"Sammy, wait-" he ignores Dean's hiss.

"Cas," he demands, stowing his gun.

"It's alright. Something happened. He lost a lot of blood. I can't restore it," Cas says.

"How is that 'alright'??"

Dean circles the car, checking properly before putting his gun away.

Cas steps aside.  
Chuck's got blood all across his face, like he fell sideways with a broken nose. Blood all down his front.

They match. Only Chuck's is human blood.

Sam kneels beside the seat and Chuck blinks slow at him. "Talk to me."

His eyes droop and he kinda lists to the side, into the seatback.

"Woah!" He reaches to help him so he doesn't conk his head. And he presses his thoughts forward, but it's like he's not doing it right. Because instead of the soft pillow fort of the bind it feels like the walls of a greenhouse. Wet, hot glass and light.

"Okay, what the fuck, somebody better start fucking talking," and he aims it at Cas and Cas knows he's just freaking out and that he doesn't handle that well. He can feel guilty about it later.

Cas raises a calming hand. "A few minutes ago. He staggered, started bleeding from the nose. He looked like he was... shocked. Or surprised. He fell and. Well. Bled some more. There's nothing to heal, though, nothing physically wrong with him."

"Uh. Sam," Dean draws his attention. "A few minutes ago we were watching that batshit devotee burn from the inside." He gets his keys and opens the trunk.

"Burn?" Cas asks. "How?"

"She was about to dose me with-"

It fucking hits him out of nowhere.  
He doesn't say another word.

He gets up, hefts Chuck across the back seat, and shuts himself in there with him.

He palms Chuck's face. He looks aware enough. Worried. Like he feels a headache coming on and wants it to just not manifest. "Ten minutes ago that woman was trying to push animal blood into my mouth by kissing me. So she could use me as some sort of drone to do her bidding."

Chuck looks a little fucking maniacal as he starts laughing. He clears his throat. Grabs Sam's wrists. "It worked."

Sam pulls his stupid, bloody, beautiful face forward and gets more on his shirt. Lets Chuck laugh until he quite literally passes out.

"Marriage magic, huh?" Dean asks in the rear-view as he drives them back to the motel. "I mean, that was actually way cool," Dean says. "I thought her god set her lungs on fire or something but instead Chuck kicked her ass for making moves on you," he elbows Cas in the passenger seat. "That could be us, but you playing," his new favorite thing is quoting Jody quoting the internet memes that the kids teach her.

Sam doesn't know how to feel about this. First and foremost he wants their pillow fort back. The bind isn't really even responding right now. And Chuck looks like he got his head kicked in.

He saved Sam. Saved him from becoming something else. Saved him before he could even have to feel her bloody, disgusting mouth on him.

The bind worked. It did exactly what it was supposed to.

But it ran through his significant other like a Mack truck.

He needs to know. Wants to know, academically, what it felt like, how it worked, if Chuck knew what was happening. He didn't seem to.

Maybe the bind doesn't tell them it's working; it's just a hands-free invasion deterrent.

He never stopped to think what would happen if someone didn't know their move to violate him was denied. 

When Cas couldn't see into his mind, he didn't push. He backed off. That was it.

If you press, maybe the bind uses more force to get you to back off.

She just. Died.  
She was gonna try and take him over and she died for it.

Chuck's fingers clutch at Sam's jacket and there he fucking goes again: he wants to lie. Protect Chuck from what their bind did.

He's also so _fiercely_ in fucking love with him.

Sam has to sit back and question his instinct to lie to Chuck.

To turn around and pour blood in his mouth.

It's ugly and he can't do it. Not even if that means telling him that their bind has a body count.

He didn't want that woman to die. But she would have killed them if she had to. She was already on the verge of violating Sam's autonomy.

He wants to lie because he wants their marriage to be a beautiful and pure thing.

But it couldn't be a real marriage ceremony in the first place because they're both dead on the books. They couldn't go with a regular muggle ceremony because it wouldn't have fit.

They're building a house with a new panic room. With a workshop to hide ammo and hunters and cages.

Their family itself has a body count. Dean and Cas's devotion to each other has one. Even the way they claimed their sister, their kids.

All of it. A trail of bodies.

If they're not branding themselves the bad guys and giving themselves up as lost, then they simply have to do this because people won't stop trying to end the goddamn world.

He pulls Chuck's hand out of its grip and holds it. Kisses it.

He leans against the bind and it melts back into the soft haven that it was.

Chuck built a temporary fortress around Sam's being to keep someone out.

She tried to scale the wall and fell.

She failed.

Sam hauls him closer, takes his pulse, uses his shirt to wipe some of the blood from his mouth.

"Fidgeting," he awakens to gripe.

"I wanna be able to taste you when I kiss you," he whispers into his hair. "Hold still a sec."

"Pretty sure I taste more like myself than ever this way," but he helps, scrubbing with the back of his hand. "Wow. I'm cold."

Sam takes his jacket and overshirt off and tugs them around Chuck. "She's dead," he fesses up instantly. "She died. She toasted. For touching me, for trying to do that to me, the bind choked her out and set fire to her. It didn't do that to Cas when he checked."

"She was going to change you. She was going to hurt you and change you. That's against my rules." He looks up and his fingers only make it as high as Sam's collar. He grips and gets his eyes. "That's not okay with me. No one changes you except yourself."

"You changed me," Sam whispers.

The bind is folds of _silk_. Beautiful like ancient marble statues of goddesses swathed in veils. Soft and gorgeous and. Kind of rewarding. Kind of pleased and sure if he had to give it characteristics like that.

"I'll fry if you want me to fry," Chuck says quiet, against his lips, and kisses him.

"I wonder what my half would do if someone tried to hurt you," Sam doesn't mean to ask that aloud.

"Probably manifest you right there to give them a chance to live and go instead of die. Because you're better than me. I have to strap on a marriage-power-spell to defend you."

Sam winces. Clears his throat. "I um. She. She tied us to some. Chairs," he admits, shrugging.

Chuck doesn't roll his eyes, just closes them and knocks his head into Sam's shoulder. "You can stop that shit any day now."

"I know. I'm sorry. I made you use the bind and you hurt your brain and you lost all that blood," he laments senselessly. "I can't believe I did that to you."

"Stop that shit, too. Shut up and be proud of us with me. Sorry I don't care that somebody died. I don't extend mercy to mind-controllers."

In the quiet, he has to wonder if this is really how the bind works. Just this one way. It's a quiet place to press together and not feel alone. And that's great.

But. Chuck gets to protect him. Just like he intended. It's that power-of-attorney thing and not more and he just can't help but be bummed by it. He had things he wanted walking into this, as well.

He wanted to take some of the pressure off Chuck's mind and now, instead, he, what? Bleeds from the brain when the bind enforces its power?

God.

He really loves their marriage. Loves it like the bind were living tissue. Were another hand that Chuck extended to reach out and connect them. He loves it like it's a part of them.

He doesn't want to be thinking this: that maybe it was a bad idea.

But Chuck is just satisfied through it. Sam can feel no flutter of doubt. The bind is just this excessively-soft slippery-silken thing.

Like, okay. Realistically? How did that scenario end?

If she'd worked her mojo and made Sam into a drone to do her bidding-- her god's bidding, whatever. What would have happened?

Probably nothing good. It's unlikely he'd be going out to grab copper pots and yew wands for her to do benign little white-magic spells with.

She would have had him take revenge out on that schoolteacher she hated or the boss who fired her or bend the will of whomever her god called forth.

So she died fast, without the opportunity to kill anybody else. Or take Sam over.

If him and Dean had gotten out of the chairs and ropes in time to stop her, maybe she would have lived.

Maybe they would have stopped her. But she was two seconds away from success.

They've had to kill people for less of a threat.

And all Chuck did was protect his spouse. For which Sam is actually swelling with gratitude the more he remembers his own dead-eyed, soulless stare in the mirror. Imagines himself looking that way as someone's giving him orders.

He came into this with his eyes open. Thanks to Cas and Chuck's combined interpretations and his own extensive research, he might even know more about the nature of the bind than Chuck did when he used the idea of it to propose to him.

And his own thoughts, at that point, make the bind softer, a blissful-cool slide of fabric.

He can't help himself, really. He thinks about Chuck picking up pieces of confidence from their time together, finally getting to the point where he buys this ring online, then gathers courage enough to ask, without even considering where they were--

Just because he wanted to be Sam's husband. That's all.

Chuck's fingers are still holding his collar and Chuck does taste of himself.

He can smell them both on him, in his hair, past the blood and the tall grass he was crouched in and the effort of the day.

Kisses him solid and long. Backs off because Chuck drops his head a little too much, still dizzy from the sudden mind whammy and exhausted.

Sam reaches blindly in the footwell for a bottle of water he knows is rolling around there, takes from a stack of napkins wedged into the edge of the seat. He cleans his face off, checks his pulse again and it's improved a little. His skin is cold, but that's to be expected.

They're tangled weirdly in the seat. He straightens them up a bit and takes Chuck's hands to warm them up.

Pulls the palm of Chuck's left hand to press over his own mouth over and over because Chuck writes with this hand.

The rings are too big to both go on his one finger and the left is his writing hand and the stack of them was getting in the way. So now he wears the engagement ring on his right and the wedding ring on his left.

Sam likes this. Likes how you can see from both sides. There's no doubt that this guy is _married_. He's not up for grabs. Sam got him and Sam's gonna keep him.

Chuck thumbs at his rings sometimes. Like they keep him calm. And that satisfies something deep in Sam. When he's not within range to do the job himself, he has the rings for his nervous fingers.

The bind doesn't feel like a pillow fort when they move out of reach.

It _is_ there. It's just like a bed waiting in the middle of a room. The promise of ease when you're ready to come back to it.

And now they know it can kill somebody, long-range.

At least Chuck can. If Sam doesn't have the same privilege, he's gonna be so pissed.

They get back to the motel and Chuck insists on walking himself in and standing at the sink to clean up. 

He looks in the mirror at Sam hovering. "Can you get me a new shirt?"

Sam quickly retrieves one.

"Can you please get a new one for yourself? You're gory as hell."

Sam does so.  
Pops back into the bathroom.

"Put your overshirt back on," Chuck sighs and hands it back.

"What else do you need??"

Chuck laughs. "Put your jacket back on," he thumbs at where he tossed it.

"Don't you need help?" he comes back around. "Aren't you cold? I need to get water so you can grow all your blood back. I'll go get water," he decides aloud and trips on himself leaving for the vending machines.

Chuck is drying his face when Sam comes back. Sam helps and then just sinks to his knees and-

"Thank you. Oh my god, I'd be-- Dean would have had to stop me. You guys would have been hunting me by now if you didn't just save me!!" he's suddenly falling to fucking pieces. "Holy shit you're so amazing," he just stares up at Chuck, stunned. Leans into the hand that holds his face. "Tell me what to do?? You just fought to keep me in my own head. Tell me what to do," he insists.

"Sam, the whole point of this is that you're the only one who can tell you what to do."

"But I want you to do it."

Chuck sways a little so Sam stands and gathers him up and sits him on the bed. He gets a new hoodie and his jacket for him. It's warm in the room because the door is open. Even with the a/c running. But he needs to grow his blood back.

Oh god. He's worn and weak. Sam has to protect him until he doesn't weave when he stands. He needs to do his job harder. Chuck is his fucking hero. Chuck is his goddamn protector.

He brings water and kneels on the floor in front of him. Waits until he chugs most of a bottle.

Chuck sighs again. "Puppy-dog, I promise I'll be okay. Don't you guys have to find out if she was the only one talking to her god? She might have had other-"

"Dean and Cas can figure it out. They have to raid her house and find her phone and whatever. Are your feet cold?"

"Sammy."

"You're light-headed still, please lay do-"

"Food! Okay! Take me to food."

"Okay!" He can do that. He holds Chuck's hand out to the car and sits him in the passenger seat and turns to lock back up.

"The hell?" Dean asks, stepping out of the other room.

"We're getting something to eat. I need him to eat."

Dean rolls his eyes and goes back inside.  
Like, pretending he didn't buy a fucking beehive when his own husband was in distress.

Sam gets in the car and Chuck stops him before he can start the engine, grabs his hand.

"Hey. I promise I'm okay."

"Okay, but I can make you feel better, faster. I want you to be 100%. I got strapped to another stupid chair and you hurt yourself saving me. This is like the direct opposite of what our roles should be."

Chuck pulls the keys from his hand. "No, see, that's the wrong answer. Because we're-"

He cringes and tries to hide it with impatience, "Equals, yeah, I know. I know that."

"Sam. Be quiet for a minute. Just hold my hand."

He clings. Whatever Chuck needs.

But. He doesn't expect something to surge at him across the bind when they go quiet.

"Oh fuck," he breathes.

"You feel that," Chuck says, rather than asking.

" _Yes_." It feels the way Sam feels when he's got Chuck's mouth pressed to his neck, his beard on Sam's bare skin, his lips there in a prolonged kiss, breathing against him.

It feels like he's holding Chuck secure and nothing can get to them.

"I'm trying to push this at you. When I passed out I fell into the way that feels. It wasn't like passing out cold because I got punched or something. It was that I knew you were on the other side and we'd both be okay. Alright? So just. I don't know if this is the result on your end, all hyperactive and worried? But on my end it's just. Easy. Like I have no doubt you're doing exactly what you're supposed to. So stop asking. Don't panic. Just. Whatever you think will be best. Okay? I'm fine. I know I'm fine because you're here."

Oh no. "How come I don't fucking feel that way??" This is so unfair. He can only feel something that strong when Chuck is, like, shoving it over to him, concentrating and doing it on purpose. "Do you feel things that vividly all the time?"

Chuck squeezes his hand. "No. But when you feel messed up like this I can feel it happening. So I think I'm supposed to share that with you so you understand that I feel safe just because you're okay again. I'm a little out of it from the whammy but the bind is letting me feel closer to you so I just feel. I donno. Connected to you. Kinda stable."

"But how come I don't feel that connected to _you??_ Why do I have to borrow it from you just to feel it?" This is awful.

"Sam. Please calm down," he pulls his hand away but offers his arms and Sam comes over to press him close.

He shudders, when he does. Because Chuck shares the surge of goodness again and he feels so unbelievably loved. "I'm so bad at this. I can't do the bind things you do."

"That's not fucking true." Chuck pulls his head up and kisses his face. Gives his keys back. "Here. Drive and I'll tell you my theory. You have to remember it's only been a month. We have forever to work on it, Sam. You're okay. And you can't be expected to find this on your own when you're stressed."

Sam slumps. But drives.

"So, it's like I told you - I'm pretty sure I just know your head and the shape of your thoughts. I also think I'm a little more open to it than you."

"I'm open to it!" he protests.

"Squid, you used to tense up at the thought of Cas hearing your head in passing. You also tense up over the mind reading stuff because you're afraid what it means if it comes to you too naturally. So it bothers you to be heard and it freaks you out to hear. You're kinda... clenched up on both ends. And there's nothing wrong with that. Nothing," he waits until Sam glances to him so he knows he gets it. "There's nothing wrong with protecting yourself. So it's just on instinct that you're protecting yourself from me."

Sam comes to a sudden and miserable conclusion: if he weren't so mentally constipated, maybe it would have been easier for Chuck's half of the bind to protect him. Maybe he wouldn't have bled and hit the ground and conked out. He clenches the steering wheel and curses.

Chuck leans over and pries at his hand until he gives it to him and steers with the left. "I don't mind. You have to believe me. Sam, I will wait as long as it takes for you to feel comfortable with this. I know how it is in there. I really do and I know that, in itself, freaks you out more. But I think your mind will get used to me. Just like you got used to being around me and bending down to meet me instead of expecting somebody who would stretch up on their toes to reach you. You never make me feel like we're as awkwardly-shaped as we are. You never make me feel like I have to climb up on boxes to meet you at your level. You have a height advantage on me and you never use it to specifically disadvantage me or make me feel small. I understand that I have a mental advantage on you and, some day, you'll understand that I have no intention of using it to crush you out or manipulate your thoughts."

"I already know that," he grumbles.

"Objectively, academically, yes. But you need the time to know that _in practice_. You just need time to get used to me like I had to get used to you touching me."

Sam pulls into the very first available restaurant with a menu Chuck won't balk at this week. He's impatient for a spot and he throws it in park fast as he can so he can drag Chuck over into his arms.

How the fuck did he find someone who gets this? Who respects it and has patience with it? Someone who can put it into words and doesn't dismiss even one small facet of it?

Chuck asked for this, fully aware of how long it might take. Fully aware of Sam's hang-ups and baggage.

He wishes he could let go, right at this instant. He wishes this made it so okay that it just flipped a switch within him and he could feel safe in Chuck's mind-palace-hallway with him. Share absolutely everything with him.

He wishes it wasn't going to have to take hard work.

And he recognizes that it will.

"I know you. I promise I know you," Chuck says.

Who ever expected that to be such a massive relief?

«»

Sam doesn't leave Chuck alone in their motel room until he's seen the pages. Sam knows the pages, by now. They must be a reoccurring dream that Chuck has. He doesn't catch a lot of the content of them but he knows that Chuck has dropped into a dreaming sleep when he sees pages fly or feels them flutter to the floor in his mind.

He locks up and goes next door.

Dean's on the phone.

Cas looks up from a tablet. Cocks his head at him. "May I ask how the acolyte met her end? What was it that you felt happening?"

Sam sighs and sits across the kitchenette table from him. "I didn't feel anything. I was..." he frowns, considering, "disgusted, more than afraid of what she was gonna do. I was getting angry. Dean was struggling and yelling at her. And. I was just grossed out. She was gonna push blood into- _animal blood_ into my mouth. Looked like a dog or a possum or something. It was mutilated. She drained the blood, dumped some in her own mouth so she could, like, kiss it into mine. But she got on top of me, came close, and she started choking. I didn't even have time to consider why."

"And she burned?"

Sam understands that, as new information about their bind emerges, they're going to have to act as a case study. He settles in and tries to recall it as accurately as he can. "She started choking, kinda grabbed at her throat and fell back. Off of me. And. She hit the ground, wide-eyed. A char showed up on her. Kinda like it looks when you burn the bones and a ghost goes up in front of you, now that I think about it. Like there was a thin line of flame that spread out real quick, spread up and down her throat, and left a burn behind. More like a mineral burning than flesh."

Cas takes this in. "She didn't speak?"

"No. Didn't even scream."

"And you felt nothing."

Sam shakes his head.

"Have you felt different since coming back into contact with your husband?"

"Well. Yeah. I feel like he got punished for something that happened to me. I feel responsible and-"

"Protective or simply responsible?" Cas challenges.

Well. He's got a heaviness in his chest because Chuck felt pain from saving him. And he feels pretty protective all the time. But what's been buzzing within him isn't any unusual degree of either. At least his sense of responsibility here is attributable to an issue that Chuck just explained to him in full: he isn't getting as much from the bind because he's not as open to it yet. "Responsible," he decides aloud. "But not like I'm feeling it against my will. I can trace where it's coming from and we talked about it. And I'd feel this way if I got off scot-free from any hunt but he cracked his head open. He's not supposed to have to endure that kind of thing when we work. I don't know that I'll ever feel differently about that. What was it like-- I mean. What happened to him that you could see?"

Cas drags his mug across the table to hold it close and lean over it. "We were waiting to catch sight of you both and it was well within the timeframe we planned. He didn't betray anything. He just fell to both knees and he looked surprised by it. I can't hear anything from either of your minds and you weren't around to grant me permission to look for what was wrong within him. I had to rely on conventional means to determine that nothing was really wrong when he collapsed. He didn't make a sound. He startled when I tried to help him up, but I don't think that's unusual for him. He didn't say anything except that you were alive. He knew it somehow?" Cas searches his face.

The same way Sam can tell - that connection hanging open on the other side of him. "Yeah. Yeah, I can just. Tell. The, um. The bind felt different, after. When I touched him again. It felt like- well, I could tell that something had been thrown together to keep me protected. It was harder for me to get back to feeling like we normally do." He tries to edge around the details. Those really aren't for anybody but him and Chuck. He wouldn't want anyone to know about the pillow fort. Which is probably exactly why there was so little in the text about the actual everyday presence of the connection.

Cas sits back a little, still considering him. "Chuck got what he intended to, then."

Yeah. In a big way.

Dean ends his phone call and comes to steal Castiel's coffee.

"Bupkis. Not a cult, just a party of one. I think her coworkers drove her off the deep end. They're lucky I got nothin' on em to be honest. Should be them dead on the floor. Bunch of assholes."

"If no one else is involved, we should go back and put her to rest. It won't anger any gods just as leaving her there won't serve as a warning to others," Cas says.

Dean nods. Polishes off the mug. "How's your knight in shining armor?"

"Out cold. I'm gonna leave him that way for a while."

"Thank him for me. I'm glad it's not you we're hunting right now."

"I will. I already have. I've never been-" Sam takes a deep breath. "I'm just fucking floored. It worked. I feel like if Luci popped back out of the box right now I could laugh in his face."

Dean looks him up and down. "I think you could have before, but it would add a really hilarious insult to injury to watch your little Woodchuck do it with you."

"You gotta cut that shit out. You sound like an idiot."

"I'm serious."

"The dumbass names, I mean." He stands up. "I'm gonna go get my shit. I wanna come with and get a better look at the body. Anybody report in to Charlie yet?"

Dean and Cas both look chagrined.

"Update her. I'll be right back."

He grabs his jacket, again, and the rest of his gear. He plugs Chuck's phone in and leaves a note sitting under it.

Sam can't imagine he'll wake up, though. He's totally wiped. Sam jostles Chuck, climbing in and kissing his head, his hand, and he doesn't flinch.

They track their way back to the abandoned house and disassemble the altar, kick through the careful sand symbols until they're just footprints.

Sam crouches to the body and it's corroded into ash from the neck down to the navel and from the jaw up to the cheekbones. It looks like it's still spreading, eating away at her. Pieces fly away at a touch.

Dean comes to poke her with a stick.  
Sam slaps his arm away.

Dean hovers his hand out over the corpse

Sam does, too.

"It's warm," Dean reports. He gets his stick back. It smolders when he pokes the end through the ash.

Sam had touched her with his fingers. Only ash, no burning.

They give each other a look.

Dean reaches out with his bare hand. Touches her sunken, slowly-burning neck. He flinches and pulls back when he finally hits a hot spot.

Sam touches the same area and smothers the embers with his bare hand. No burn.

Cas comes around. "Try it in a different area."

Dean touches at her torso until he gets burned.

Sam pats the flames out of her chest without feeling heat or searing.

"Sam is the only one allowed to decide that the punishment is over," Cas concludes.

So only Sam can decide if a violator has paid in full for a crime against him.

When he fans at the embers on the edge, they glow hotter. He can crush his hand into the ash to stamp it out.

Then he realizes he's got a dead woman all over his hand. "Um." He puts the rest of it out and sort of gets her into a pile.

The flames even ate through her bones.  
But they don't touch him.  
No wonder heaven feared this.

His husband protects him from harm and Sam decides for himself when the punishment is over.

"So. Um. I'm really goddamned impressed," Dean admits when they've got her all collected in a canvas.

Sam gets the white rum from her altar array and uses it to splash the ash off his hands.

"I mean, that's the most heavy-duty protective magic we've ever seen," Dean adds.

"I really know of nothing like it," Cas admits.

"Yeah, well, you guys are forgetting that little detail where I inadvertently burned someone alive," Sam snaps.

Dean snorts a laugh. "Don't give yourself that much credit. I think Chuck takes the win on this one."

Sam deflates again.

«»

He's reluctant to report the extent of the damage or the results of his and Dean's prodding to Chuck.

He washes the dirt and rum from his hands when he gets back and he starts packing. Only wakes Chuck when the guys finally wanna go to dinner.

"Hi, sweetheart," he calls, low, petting him until he's awake.

"You smell like smoke."

"Went back to bury the woman who attacked us. She was working on her own."

Chuck sniffs and sits up. "You had to torch her?"

Ugh. Sam just admits everything. It comes bursting out of him.

Chuck blinks when he's through, sits leaning on his knees. "Okay. Well. You still seem like you feel wicked guilty over this. Sam? I still don't. So I'm sorry we feel differently, but this isn't on you. When you can't protect yourself, I'm in the driver's seat. That's what we agreed on by, you know, _getting married_. And what I wanted was to protect you from being invaded. Yes, I will take the win." He reaches to wrap a hand around Sam's wrist. "I'm sorry you feel like this is on you. You should never feel that way. If someone tied a person up in a dark alley and... _assaulted_ them? And they were stabbed in the back while they were assaulting that person - would you blame the person who got tied up for their attacker's death?"

Sam sighs. "No."

"You didn't kill her. I did. And if that makes you uncomfortable with me-"

"It doesn't."

"Sam. I would understand."

" _It doesn't._ It's not like you were directing your psychic powers. It's not like you even knew what was going on."

"Okay. So. Stop blaming the victim." Chuck leans up to kiss him.

Sam really wasn't thinking of himself that way.

Weird.

«»

Predictably, Chuck balks when he sees the truck. It's not a massive one. It doesn't stick out. According to Dean it was "begging to be plucked."

Sam got the keys thrown at him when he called Dean out on the Nicolas Cage quote.

It does sit high on large, mud-caked tires, though.

"How the hell am I supposed to get up-"

Chuck stops.  
And swings his glare up to Sam.

Sam grins.

A muscle beneath his eye twitches.

"It's for all the construction work," Sam shrugs.

Chuck sighs and seems to decide to play along.

He uplifts his hand and raises his chin with as regal an air as he can pull off. "Hand me into my coach, then."

Sam grins more and bows a little and takes his hand and leads him across the lot. Helps him climb up into the cab.

"Well, I feel taller," he says, when Sam gets into the driver's seat.

"I know. It's not bad."

"I had a truck but it was a lot lower to the ground. Plus it wasn't Pure American Muscle," he sweeps his hands wide. Then grabs for Sam's arm. "Omigod!" He points.

He points to a truck across the lot. The one that belongs to the bigot downstairs.

"Our truck is bigger than the-- than the guy's! The guy who calls us names!! Wow. What a hit to your masculinity. The queers got a '67 Impala _and_ a bigger truck than yours. What a blow to the ego that's gonna be."

Huh.  
Definite additional bonus.

"Sam," he draws his attention again.

He knows the tone. Has one last little grin left. "Sorry."

"It's okay. You're just ridiculous. It doesn't actually bother me." Chuck bites his lip and stares for a moment. "Tell me you love me," he whispers. Shakes his head. "Shit. Sorry. That's just-"

"I love you," he tugs Chuck across the bench seat. "I wanna fit in your life. I'm not making fun of you. I'm making every stupid thing about what else I can do for us. Us together. Because everything's so fucking boring when I have to leave you out of it. Make a deal with me? I know you wanna write sometimes. But I don't want to go up to work on the house without you anymore. You don't have to come work on it every day that I do. I just need to be able to come home to you. You should stay at the motel, at least. I don't want to just go up alone with Dean anymore."

"Deal. I don't need you driving two hours home exhausted. I've been worrying about it." He reaches up around Sam and hangs on. "I love you. God, I love you. Fuck. You're so important. Thanks for getting a truck to work on the house. Thanks for working on the house. Thanks for wanting me there."

"The a/c works," he says into Chuck's hair.

"Thanks for the working a/c. Can we go grocery shopping?"

"Of course," Sam rubs his back. "Do you want to go look at chairs? You wanted a reading chair. For the bedroom."

"No. It's okay. I can work on the bed unless that annoys you. I don't want the screen to-"

"It doesn't annoy me. Promise." He turns Chuck's head up. "I'm gonna kiss you for a while. Then groceries, okay?"

"What the hell are you doing with me? I'm a miniature mess," Chuck shakes his head.

"Well, I'm kind of an extra-large mess, so."

Chuck shakes his head. "Don't. Don't fuck around. I mean it. I ended up here with you and I did nothing to earn it and I just _love you_ so much. I love you."

These things have been surging out of Chuck a little more often since they discussed the differences in the way they feel the bind. It's like Chuck thinks he has to verbalize all the things that they can't just mentally bat at each other all day. It's like he's trying to be extra clear for the both of them. He's being more vocal and Sam can only love him for it. "Don't feel messed up right now. I like every goddamn thing about you and you've changed my entire mindset. My life. I couldn't say I had a husband a year ago. I have one of those now. It's pretty cool." He presses a kiss to Chuck's forehead and then his mouth. "I'm completely serious about that. Can I just... make you understand? How important it is to me to just have you locked in? To have this," he sweeps his hands over Chuck, "to myself? To know I get to feel you at the end of the day? When I think that might not happen, like, when I think I won't be able to drive home at night, that kinda thing. I get just. Just so depressed. I have you and it's like not having you. Did I even explain that right?" He genuinely doesn't know if he has the fucking words to convey what a loss it feels like. Like falling back in time to sleeping alone in his dorm in the bunker. The dark and the cold. Alone and before he had any of Chuck's words to tell him that he didn't deserve to be that lonely.

Chuck shakes his hands out and grabs for his hair again. "Okay. So let's not do that unless there's no other choice in the whole world. I hate thinking of you feeling that way."

"So, it's okay for me to ask you to do this? To come with all the time? I don't want you to feel chained to me."

An awful, sad little smile flashes across Chuck's face and he pulls Sam down into a long kiss.

"I think we keep worrying about annoying each other when the only thing I wanna do is sit too close to you and on top of you and not move until you heat us both up too much."

Sam laughs and it's a release. A relief. "The only thing I wanna do is have that happen until you don't even care if anyone catches us all tangled up that way."

"Awesome. Well, it's always nice to have life goals, Sam. Considering your methods I don't think I'll even be annoyed at _that_."

"We've still got a 'Never Shut Up' policy. So we- we talk this kind of shit out, right?" he presses. "We talk this out and when things happen that we _are_ annoyed with, we deal with them. Right then and there instead of waiting. Instead of letting them rot inside us."

"Like my beard thing. When you need me to shave."

"And like how we don't do lies," Sam agrees.

"Yeah." Chuck looks around himself. "Surprises - those are okay, though."

"I don't see why not," he smiles and presses them close and teases a little before he gets on Chuck's mouth again.

He pulls back after a long while and Chuck is droopy-eyed and soft and pleased.  
Like he is after he comes.

Sam's breath catches in his throat and his jeans are suddenly a little uncomfortable.

"Sweetheart," he leans in for just one more. Two more. Maybe three, four.

Chuck's relaxed, warm caress trails the sides of his face. He finally draws Sam further down and rests their heads together. "Let's go grocery shopping. I wanna talk about some science I read about on the news sites."

"'Kay."

Sam keeps him in the middle, next to him.

«»

He doesn't mean for it to happen.

He doesn't even know it has until Dean turns from the sink and startles. "The fuck, man??" Dean says and it makes Sam look to the motel door. They're in the middle of a hunt, everybody just starting out fresh again, a new day, following up new leads.

And then this happens.

Chuck stares in at him, "You're so sad it woke me up. What happened?" he demands. Doesn't even acknowledge Dean.

Dean looks to him, too. "Sammy? What's up?"

Sam locks his jaw tight and just shakes his head, sinks back behind his computer.

Dean's eyes narrow. "It woke Chuck up from four doors down. He only freaks like this when your brain's loud. What happened?"

Sam clears his throat. "Don. Um. Amelia's husband. He was doing contract work overseas. Blackwater type thing. He was killed in Pakistan. She um. I got an email," he rasps. "I just got an email," he shrugs.

Dean looks between the two of them. "Well. That blows. I don't really see what it has to d-"

Chuck stops him with a hand to his arm. Dean looks down at him. Gives a confused toss of a hand.

Chuck shakes his head. Glances at the clock on the nightstand.

"Let's go get lunch for everybody," he nods to Dean.

Dean starts to protest again but Chuck shakes his head. Sam has no idea how he felt that vibe so deeply across the bind, but in response, faintly, even without touch, there is nothing but calm across the bind. It ought to feel better than it does, but his insides are roiling.

"We'll be back in a while Sam," he pointedly eyes his phone on the table and then just turns to press Dean out of the room. Closes the door behind them.

Sam stares at it.

His eyes drift down to stare at the email.

Amelia waited a few weeks. She has her dad looking out for her again.

But she waited to pack and leave and hunt down an extended-stay hotel to live in. Waited until she couldn't stand it anymore.

Waited to call Sam.

He doesn't have his old numbers anymore. So it took her a few more days, after she finally got Don's body home and buried him, to email Sam.

He wishes he hadn't opened it.  
He doesn't want to write back. He doesn't want to call.

He doesn't want to feel this.

Don contracted with a company a bunch of his ex-military friends worked for. He was on a short consulting trip. He was in the wrong part of town at the wrong time.

She thought he was dead. And he came back to life. Came back to her. Only to leave her sight and die again.

From the tone of the email, the "I don't know"s and the way she seems so lost, he doesn't think he's the right one to help her. But she wants a call. He has to extend at least that much.

He gets a burner phone out of Dean's bag. He has to leave a message the first time. She doesn't pick up.

It gives him ten minutes to sit on the edge of the bed and rattle his leg and think about what a bad idea this is.

Then. She calls.

He hardly knows what he says. Because it's two minutes in when she starts crying and begging for mercy. Begging to see him for at least a drink.

And he's lost, now, too.

Because he can't. Doesn't want to.

It places dead-last on a list of things he wants to do, actually. Stare at her haunted face. Look at someone he loved so much in such an incredible amount of pain.

She had gained this shaky strength back by the time he met her. She wasn't happy about forging on but she did. She always would.

He doesn't know if this Amelia will be able to.

Sam has less than no place in her life. All that's hovering on the other side of his consciousness as he listens to her get the story out in fits and starts is how he-

It's not comparable. It never is.

Only, Chuck was dead once, too. To get someone back and-

One side of his mind projects forward in time. To some unnamable moment when his fucking heroics are gonna get somebody else killed.

And if that ends up being Chuck?

Amelia isn't who he'll call.

Dean will lock him down and keep him alive. _Would_ do that. If he had to. And her dad will keep her alive like Dean would keep him alive.

But he has no business coming into her life right now. And he can't tell her why. Can't let on that it's because he's married, now, and his husband makes him happier than he's been in recent memory. Can't even tell her he's out hunting, let alone that he knows when his significant other is alive and calm on the other end of their _magic marriage soul bind_.

He can't see her eyes. Can't witness her loss that close.

He's a coward.

"One drink," she breathes. "One half hour. Sam. For me," she pleads in a wet voice.

How can he still love her and not stand to see her at the same time?

Is he bitter? He can't possibly still claim pain over her. He can't say she left him lonely. Can't say he wasn't the one who didn't make a choice to show up again. And he's not entitled to the assumption that she didn't, either.

She needs a friend. And he can't be it.

He can't see someone he used to love so deeply, and still loves on some level, and watch her crying and sorry and alone and say he can trust or predict what would happen.

He would never-  
It just. It's too hard. He can't help her. He's not the one.

He says no, softly. A few times. He says he's so sorry and if he can do anything from here- but it's just not possible. "I want you to go back home," he says, at last. "I want you to let your dad take care of you. I want what Don would want for you - to be sad and do your mourning. But keep living." She has to keep living.

She's just jagged breath on the other end for a long time. But she finally says, "Okay."

And he knows she won't try to speak to him again.

He tries to say more, but it's full of "I don't know"s, too.

After a while she takes a deep breath.  
Says goodbye.

«»

He thumbs at the phone screen a long time before he turns it off and puts it away again.

He finds his own phone silent. Nothing from Dean or Chuck.

His lungs have crawled into his throat.

He needs Chuck. He wants him back. He needs him talking and alive and close. Needs to wash his thoughts out and not see. Not see someone dead like that.

Alive and then dead and then alive and then dead again.

He sits back on the bed and dials.

"Hey," Chuck says and he tries really hard to sound somewhere between understanding and neutral because _he knows_.

"Hi. Where did you go?" Sam sounds awful and sad and needy to himself.

"I'm waiting for the pizza. Dean's getting some groceries."

"Please just stay with me," he lets out without intending to.

Chuck's only quiet for a moment. "Hey. I'm gonna read you their salad menu. It's pretty good, they have a lot of options. And you're gonna tell me what all you want on yours, okay?"

He doesn't say anything. Chuck just starts reading. Sam says, "Yeah," and "That," and Chuck fills in the gaps and orders and pays and says he'll take it with the rest of the food.

He hears a pan clatter in the background. "I'm sorry, Sammy, there's still like 10 minutes," he says. "And Dean took the car. But I'll be home to you soon. I'll stay on the phone. You know I love you. Figured I didn't have to text and tell you. Figured you knew."

"Yeah. I know. I love you," he breathes and drops his head into his hand, eyes closed and picturing him sitting in a booth rattling a sugar packet, watching the kitchen work.

"Dean wanted to know why. He called me 'the other woman.' But he won't ask any more questions unless you go to him and talk to him. I made sure of it. If you need to talk to him, that's okay. But he doesn't get to ask."

Because Chuck's always looking out for him.

"She thought he was dead. Now he is again," Sam can't help but choke out.

Chuck waits.

"I don't think she's gonna stay alive. And I'm too chickenshit to meet her."

"Sam. You're not chickenshit. Do you want me to tell you why you're really not able to?"

He sniffs. "Yes."

"You have enough grief in your history. You can't borrow anymore. You're full up. You're allowed to need to save yourself from that. I'm the guy who has to put your mental health first and I wouldn't want you to go because I can't watch you be that sad. If you needed to go - if you felt you had to? Honey, I would ask you not to. I'd let you go but I would ask you not to. I wouldn't let Dean or anybody stop you. I'd just need you to bring someone with. You could get somebody to go with you. Someone you can tell her is your friend. Or bring one of her coworkers or something. But I'd need you to have a buffer. You take too much sadness inside with you."

He doesn't say that he knows Sam wouldn't be able to take him with. He doesn't mention it. And at the same time Chuck is telling him that he _should_ go if he needs to. Just not without support.

It really is too much grief to borrow.

He understands why she asked.  
But Sam isn't the same kind of hollow he was when they met.

To keep her from asking - to protect her from more sadness - he would have to take his rings off.

He couldn't do it. In all honesty, he couldn't open himself up to that much sadness without Chuck _and_ Dean beside him for it, either.

"How do I get over not being able to help her?" Once upon a time he wanted it to be his job to help her through this kind of shit. Now his duty is to someone else. Someone else who does the same for him. Like right now.

"You save everyone you can, Sammy. You always have. Saving someone from themselves is harder. And when it's muggles - sometimes even when it's not - other people have to step in. You said her parents are alive, right?"

"I told her I wanted her to go back and ask her dad to help her."

"Is there anyone else you can call for her?"

Her nurses. At the clinic. If she's working at the same place. "I can try and find out. She didn't really socialize beyond the bar."

Chuck breathes across the line. "So you have a type, huh?" he jokes lightly.

No saving Amelia from her drinking, though. "She slowed down when I was around. But in the way that Dean slows down."

"There's a joke in there about marrying a woman like your mother," Chuck says, dry.

That wasn't on the table with her. "I think that ended up happening, anyway. You and Dean both went to go get me food and fret about me in the car."

Chuck doesn't deny it. "I need to say one more thing. Then you're going to let Cas back into that room and check for someone else to call. Okay?"

"Yeah," he sighs.

"When you die, you're not going to hell."

There is absolutely no way of knowing that.

"Dean said Cas laughs at him sometimes because he hates heaven so much but he's gonna end up spending so much time there. And I can't imagine how heaven would survive the path of destruction he'd bring down on it if they didn't let him see you. Not the 13-year-old heavenbot version of you. _You_. He can tell the difference."

"And what about you?" Sam snaps, his voice shaking. "If I got locked up in my own heaven without you they might as well toss me in the pit-"

"You really think the bind hurt that much for no reason?" he challenges. "Frankly, I doubt they have a choice. Pretty sure the whole fam's a package deal. I'd be surprised if they didn't keep kicking us down here just so they could keep their halls Winchester-free. Anarchy-and-riot-free. Castiel-free. Shotgun-shell-and-skidmark-free," Sam can hear him grinning by now. "And they can't send us to hell. We'd kick Crowley's ass out and just install a kitchen."

Sam finally snorts a laugh.

"I don't think anyone's safe from us."

"I love you," stumbles out of his mouth.

"I love you," he returns, soft and sure. "It's not worth it borrowing Don's death and pasting it into our family. Traditional death just isn't something we have to worry about. We're not muggles. We know too much. It's not us who're in danger - it's heaven and hell we know too much about. It's them - they've gotta watch their asses. So you're gonna do what you can, now, okay? Take a deep breath with me?"

They do.

"Do you wanna stay on the phone until I get back or do you wanna make your calls?"

He doesn't want to subject Chuck to any more of this than he's getting from the outside. Chuck isn't the other woman. He's separate from this.

Sam's gonna finish it before Chuck comes home to him.

"I'm gonna see you in a little while."

"Okay. Let Cas in. He's supposed to help you. Love you?"

"Yeah. Love you. Come home as soon as you can."

«»

Cas is leaning on Charlie's car, outside the door.

Sam steps aside.

"Chuck asked me to make sure you're alright," he says, just to be polite. He had to have been able to hear Sam on the phone through the door. He can hear most stuff.

Sam doesn't comment on it. He sits down and has Cas run a check on tax records to see where Amelia is currently employed.

Sam calls and finds one if her old colleagues. Explains that Amelia needs some people who understand her right now and follows up the voicemail with a text containing her number and email, just in case it's been a while since they've seen her.

Cas finds that she's on leave from a small emergency practice out by farmland. Sam leaves messages and texts and turns the burner phone back off. It will take those people a while to get back to a strange number and he only explained that he was a friend too far away to help. He doesn't know if he can actually talk to them.

"I think you've done what you could, Sam." Cas didn't get the full story, but listening in, he got enough.

Sam nods. Sits for a while. He has questions for Cas but he doesn't wanna still be dwelling on death when Chuck gets back. It makes sense for Sam to feel this way but not for Chuck to have to live it through him. Chuck should stay removed from this at least that one step. This isn't something Chuck needs to be close to - he's a part of Sam's _life_ , not his _fate_.

"Sam," Cas draws his attention back in. "Perhaps you should process this for a while. Charlie's found something. The others are on the phone with her right now. We'll likely pick up the new lead after we eat. We should let you and your husband have some peace for the day. Dean and I will take care of the kids."

He doesn't know about that. He might wanna stay distracted today.

Claire wanders over to let them know the Impala's back.

She eyes Sam with suspicion as they get up to come with. Cas scoots out around her first. She glances over her shoulder and then watches Sam close his stuff up in his bag. "You okay?"

"I actually don't know," he says in all honesty.

"I know you don't like when I'm nosy but you two aren't in the same room," she says, quiet.

It startles a laugh out of Sam. "Uh. No. We're fine. He was- I had to do something. He was giving me a while to let it play out."

She still looks concerned.

"But thanks," he smiles at her.

They can lock the door tonight but they're still gonna wake up to find Claire at the foot of the bed tomorrow. Like a cautiously hopeful mutt who just wants her friends to be happy and take walks and let her maul bad guys.

She lets him hook an arm around her neck and clunk his chin down on her head. Then he closes up the room to head to the next.

There's a feeding frenzy, already, and Chuck is pulling two bags from the mess. A couple of the kids are helping Dean bring grocery bags with sodas and snacks in. Cas closes the car up and then helps Sam rescue Chuck from the fray.

They escape a few doors down to their own room and shut themselves in.

Sam puts all their stuff down at the table and turns to face him. Stretches his hands down at his sides.

Chuck steps forward to touch his arms, ghost his hands down them to his palms like he's checking for damage.

"I woke you up with this," Sam motions to his head. "I didn't mean to. You haven't had food yet. Haven't had coffee."

"Yeah, that totally matters more than your soul being crushed," Chuck shakes his head and frowns at him. "Do you need me to touch you? Or do-"

"Yes."

Chuck pushes him toward the wall and presses him there. Uses his whole body to crowd in and do it. Puts his hands on his torso and puts his ear to Sam's chest.

Sam kind of.  
Gives up?

Shakes his head and sinks down into him, over him, holds him close, hugs him too fucking tight.

Because some unknown paramedic restarted Chuck after a car wreck once. That's the reason they're here right now. And Chuck didn't ask to put himself in the path of Sandalphon or Persephone or anybody. Chuck only chose this life recently and he did it to be with this family and if something happens to him, that's on Sam. He wouldn't take himself away on purpose. Wouldn't waltz into a war zone.

Sam never wants to say goodbye. Never wants to go through what Amelia's dealing with right now.

Too many people have died. Too many people close to him and he got here. He got married. He should be taking this more seriously. He should be working on them more than he's working on cases.

"Sweetheart?"

"Yeah."

"If Dean and Cas can handle the kids for the rest of the day. If they think they've got this. Can we run off for a while?"

"Run off?" he pulls back a little to look up at him.

"Take a break from this. And from the house stuff. I mean. For a couple days. Then we'll go back to building. But."

"Breather?"

Sam shrugs.

"Totally. As long as you feel like everybody's gonna be safe without you."

He nods.

Chuck looks at him a little curious. "Are you sure you don't wanna try to go help? I just have to check one more time," he asks, completely neutral.

"I can't go to Amelia. She needs people who won't hurt her more. I can't guarantee that wouldn't happen."

Chuck feeds him. They share a salad and a calzone and a full goddamn brownie and then they heat up water in the crappy coffee pot to make good stuff in the french press.

Sam gets struck with a great idea for his next present to Chuck. One of those little copper pots to infuse spices and make Turkish coffee.

Happiness flares bright within him and he feels like he ought to be ashamed of that at a time like this. But he did what he could. So Chuck is proud of him. He could ask, to be sure, but he thinks he can assume that. And he's proud of himself for thinking of another unique present for his sweetheart. He doesn't have to scrape together some thought-that-counts bullshit. He does his damn job. He does his job and takes care of his people. And he wants to keep doing it.

"Am I gonna sound scatterbrained and ridiculous if I change my mind? I think I wanna finish this hunt."

Chuck doesn't ask or wait to be told. He just comes back over to sit down on Sam, hangs on to his shoulders. "That's okay. Need me to come with? Kinda wanna look out for you."

Sam pulls him closer. "Follow the leads with us and tomorrow you'll probably be home base. That okay?"

"That sounds pretty much my speed, yeah. You want me to open the door back up?"

"One more minute," Sam thumbs at his side. "Can you tell me something?"

Chuck waits.

"Tell me-- you asked me once. And I made a joke out of it. But. This time I'm asking and I'm asking for real. How am I doing? As a. As your significant other? As a husband am I doing what I'm supposed to?" He palms Chuck's face. "Are you proud to be next to me? Do you feel safe with me? Do you need anything from me that you're not getting?"

Chuck smiles, presses into his hand. "State of the union?"

He just nods.

Chuck straightens up a bit. "I feel safe with you. Always. Always, I swear," he promises with complete sincerity. "Are you doing what you're supposed to? Yes. You can ask me for more things. When you need me and when you're overworked and when you need me to talk at you. You can ask. Sometimes I don't know, okay?" He puts his hands to Sam's hair and seems to formulate something carefully.

"Please don't edit."

Chuck takes a breath. "I admit I don't know how, but I wanna work on the bind more. Unless you're only comfortable with what we have so far. I don't need you to apologize for waking me up- if you wake me up like that from something so important? I want a better idea of what it is. I mean," he shakes his head. "If you're not comfortable with that, we don't have to. But. That seemed to be what you wanted from the bind, too, only it's quieted down. And. I mean. I don't know. I can make you know I'm on the other end if you need me, but it's not... as much as I thought?"

Sam sighs. "I guess I thought it would be more, too."

"But, Sam, that's just something more for us to work on. I'm still crazy about you. And yes, I am _very_ proud to stand beside you. Always. You're doing your job. You're doing a good job. I want to work on this thing. The bind. And the house and my art and the textbooks and the curriculum or whatever for the kids and the fake workshop and whatever else you can dream up. I'm all about it. I never wanna run out of projects to do with you. So it's okay if it takes time. We both just need to make sure we're not coming up against any invisible deadlines. Or waiting until we get fed up to push for more. We don't wanna get fed up, okay? So we can check in like this every now and again. But I want you talking as much as you want me talking. We should have this all out on the table always. Cool?"

So. He picks things out of that. Chuck is trying to stay positive for him. But he wants to be working on their life up north a little more. He always wants to have projects. He always wants them to have stuff to do together. "Yes. Fucking cool. Way cool. I'm doing good and you just wanna work on us-stuff more."

"Yes. Okay?"

He takes another deep breath. "Thank you for always giving me this. For always leaving your shell open for me, hermit crab."

Chuck steadies his head and looks to his eyes. "Significant other."

Sam's going breathless with the way Chuck looks saying that. He needs another big inhale. Needs to pull Chuck up and around to straddle him. Needs to hold him close.

He never ever ever wants to do this alone again. He never wants to give this up. He would miss this voice, this body, this touch, this steady certainty. This one. The things that make up this specific person. Chuck's the only one who carries his heart without dropping it on occasion.

His eyes flutter shut and his hands come down to Sam's neck.

Sam didn't realize his grip was so tight. He's kneading a little, his hand at Chuck's ass. Chuck starting to rock on him a little. Breath ramping a bit.

Sam wraps him tight in place so he doesn't slip at all when he-

There's a knock at their door.

Chuck sinks forward to gulp air at his neck. "Okay. Okay. I'm okay. Sorry."

"It woulda been fine. Promise," he whispers. "You wanna go?"

"Yeah."

Sam covers his ears to holler back at the door. "Give us a minute!"

"I'm sorry," Chuck repeats, blinking back.

"Don't really want you to apologize for wanting to have sex with me. You need a second?"

"Mm. Should probably let me go."

Sam lets him get up and walk stiffly to the bathroom.

He goes to the door, himself.

It's Claire again. "Cas said you're not coming? 

"Uh. Nah, changed my mind. Where are we headed?"

"We're deciding where to split up, now."

"We'll be over," he assures her.

He leaves the door wide and comes up behind Chuck in the bathroom. Plants a kiss to the back of his neck. "Going next door."

Chuck nods and starts brushing his teeth. Sam goes to collect their stuff from around the room. Then he clings to him while everyone wedges in to Krissy's room. Charlie's the last to make it. She trots in quick from outside.

There are two suspects. They need eyes on both - if one isn't a 'shifter, the other is.

Sam claims Charlie and Claire for his decoys.

Krissy and Josie are going to set the trap on the other side and Dean is gonna have Cas and Aiden with him with eyes on the second suspect. Sam wants Dean to have his eyes on Aiden. He'd take Cas with, but Dean seems to genuinely think he's gonna have the bad guy.

They cram into Charlie's car while the Impala drives off with the others. Sam drives and Chuck takes one of their case files, concentrating on something.

"I think our guy is the bad guy," he says, two minutes into observing him at work. They're camped out at two tables at a fast-food place across from the gas station where he works.

"What makes you say that?" Charlie asks.

Chuck shrugs and doesn't say anything.

He doesn't know why he knows, in other words. But he kept one of the police reports, has two pages folded under a napkin. He keeps looking at them.

Sam considers. "Want me to call Dean? Get him to send Aiden or Cas?"

Chuck shakes his head. "Nah. Dean's probably right. Dean's- he's- he would know better."

Sam looks to the other booth at Charlie.

She's staring a hole in the back of Chuck's head. "Chuck. What do you see?" she demands.

"I don't know," he says over his shoulder. "I don't know," he repeats to Sam.

He moves their basket of fries to the side. Traps one of Chuck's feet between his boots and pulls his hands across the table to hang on to him. "Lemme try something?"

Chuck nods.

Sam closes his eyes and just... supports the bind as steadily as he can. He doesn't really know what he's doing, but he wants Chuck to know he's there and that he trusts his intuition.

Chuck rattles a breath.

"I think our guy is the bad guy," he repeats. "He gave the cops video of his store, yes, but they never wrote in the report about seeing him in his own store and they never questioned it, never looked at his schedule. I think he knows about eye flare and he cut himself out of the footage or only gave them the safe footage."

Sam opens his eyes to see Chuck's are closed.

"You don't feel like it's a coincidence?" Sam presses.

Chuck shakes his head and opens his eyes.

"He didn't say anywhere that he was on vacation?" Claire asks behind him.

"One of his employees who gave a witness statement specifically said he doesn't want managers telling subordinates that he's in so he can do surprise sales audits and send in secret shoppers."

"There was no reason for the cops to try to get video of the other stations he owns," Claire throws out.

It makes some sense. He could have cut anything from the footage to protect business practices or provided just the relevant footage from the alleged break-in.

"That's his car, pulling up out back. There's a door leading that way into the stockroom," Charlie points out. "Should Claire and I do our shoplifting routine or should we stand at the employee door and you just break in the back? We can get this done with right now."

Sam would normally turn to Dean in making a call like this, but he and Charlie are here and Charlie's more in-charge than anyone.

"Up to you, boss."

"No," she finally looks around Chuck's shoulder. "It's your guts and your husband's instincts. What do you say?"

He trusts Chuck above all.  
Above _all_ others.

He wonders if that notion was strong enough to cross the bind. He wonders if that's what makes Chuck's breath catch.

"I'll go in and tag him with silver. See what happens."

Chuck squeezes his hand. "I'll be at the back door for you. They'll be in the store."

Claire could get the back door with Charlie inside the gas station. "You sure?"

"Yes," Chuck looks around the parking lots. "There's a Pepsi truck out back. He's over there fixing the fountain," Chuck nods towards the registers. "If you can steal a jacket from the cab, walk in the back door of the gas station like he left it unlocked, and shake his hand when you introduce yourself as the new guy on his route," Chuck tugs his hands away to take Sam's and pulls his wedding ring off, muttering a "Sorry, but-" and he puts it on his right hand. "He won't be able to avoid it unless he's got gloves on."

"That alright with you, Sam?" Charlie checks.

Yes. His husband planned it and has his back and he'll move his ring to the proper place again when they're done. "Definitely."

"You guys chill for another minute, I'll get the jacket," Claire rises from their booth and casually tosses her trash, pulls out her phone like she's texting, and slips from the side door.

Turns out the cameras in the back stockroom are dummies. The hardest part of ganking the shapeshifter is actually just forcing himself to wear the Pepsi vendor's spare company ballcap when he doesn't know the guy's hygiene habits.

Chuck helps him with that, later. Shampoos him twice while he gripes and washes the blood off his ring before twisting it back onto Sam's left hand with the engagement band.

Kisses his hand.

Kisses Sam until he stops complaining to drag him, fully-clothed, into the tub water.

«»

Things can feel wrong.  
Life can fit wrong.

It's a long-standing problem for Sam.

It's not limited to jeans and jacket pockets and short doorways and low ceilings.

Things didn't fit very well _before_ , either. And he knows why that was. And it's hard for the people who love him to hear him say it.

He still gets frustrated and angry with himself for not growing out of what was put into him.

That may sound unreasonable, especially given that there were demonic agents basically assigned to surround and nurture him and monitor his progress in life.

He's heard the reasoning, yes. All he was pushed into and that he's done his best and for the right reasons and turned out good. Or. Good enough.

When it was him and Lucifer in the same body for the first time, Lucifer had said, 'You know this feels good. Admit that this feels good.'

And Sam had said, 'This feels so fucking far from _good_ ,' and meant it.  
And Lucifer had said he was lying, and meant it.

Chuck pointed out to him that Lucifer was more a fan of his own lies than he ever even was of his Father and his own kind. So much so that he convinced himself he didn't lie at all, ever.

And he transferred that poison into Sam with him. Telling him what the truth was. Making it up out of thin air. Telling Sam what he was feeling and labelling it the truth.

It had felt far, _far_ from good. It had felt cold and piercing. Nauseating and creeping. It took away his ability to operate his own limbs. To feel his own sensations and act on his own thoughts and respond to his own nerve-endings and _know his own self_.

And being disconnected from his own self, essentially unplugged from this tall body he's grown into, was more a hell than the one he dove into.

Watching his own hands beat the person he loved _most_ in existence was a special kind of torn-muscle internal-bleeding broken-bone pain. The kind you get from watching hands break your own self, tear into you and snap those bones. Like how any injury is worse when you actually watch yourself receive it.

But it wasn't just him getting punished anymore. It was Dean.  
It had been Dean.

He doesn't go to bed. It's three in the morning and he hasn't gone to bed yet. He's felt _off_ a lot recently and maybe it's just the major life event - maybe it's just because he got married. But he feels like one thing after another has gone wrong and he feels like life is overwhelmingly complicated and he feels like sometimes it's beneficial to envision a nice, neat, peaceful world without Sam Winchester in it, fucking up the works.

Chuck is all closed up tight in the bedroom and sleeping in the dark and the peace and Sam can't stop picking at his own fingernails or doing sit-ups. Sit-ups don't make his fingers bleed, so it's more the latter than the former.

He wants to hear words and as much as he loves Chuck and has come to _need_ his words fiercely, has come to know them well and respect what they're capable of in his life, he wants to hear Dean say some of these words because _I'll never leave you. I'm here, I'm not going anywhere, Sammy, I'll never leave you_.

Sam fell back to his death on the comfort of those words from Dean's bloody-bruised mouth. It was okay to give himself up, to save the planet from his mistakes with Dean there to see and no one else. It was okay. It was death and it ended up being more pain than his soul could really endure but it was.

It was _okay_.

He acknowledges that he never-ever calls with good news past 3 a.m., so he can understand the short way Dean answers and demands to know what's up.

But, "It's not a thing. It's not an emergency. I. Um."

Has to beat the hell out of his brother after betraying him and ending the world and then come back and go soulless assassin on him and be at odds with him over and over and _then bother him at this hour_.

"Can we. Um. I can call back," he finally offers. "When it's. When there's. You know. Light in the sky. I'm sorry."

Dean sighs. "It's the boo-boo voice. I won't be able to get back to sleep if I don't know why you're wearing the boo-boo voice." He sniffs like he's rubbing at his face and waking up. Says something away from the phone, probably climbing out past Cas and to another room. "Alright. I'm low on coffee, so allow me if you will, little brother, to expedite this process. You ready?"

Sam has to laugh at least a little.

"Good morning. Today is another day in which the world won't end because we slapped another bandage on the bastard. Me, my brother, our best friends, our... spouses? Our teenage wards? Or however that works. Our allies. We've even conned our enemies into helping out on occasion. None of this, not one consequence or event, was ever the result of one man's actions, alone. That includes you. Got me?"

"Copy that," he stays laid back on the carpet where he dropped after his last round of sit-ups.

"You wanna tell me what it is this time?" Dean finally offers.

"Uh. General malaise? I donno. Yeah, I mean. I guess like. A swarm of guilt that I couldn't just do everyone a favor and stay in the damn hole."

He actually wasn't expecting to hear that come out of his own mouth.

Dean's silent for a long moment.

"I didn't want you to stay in the hole. That whole year I thought you were down there, I was wrong to have left you. I shouldn't have honored that stupid promise. What the hell kind of family does that make me?"

"A human one."

"I ain't people," Dean declares. "Bobby said that. We ain't _people_. We have never engaged in _people_ behavior. Humanity -- that's one thing. But humans are capable of all sorta shit. Lots of amazing things. Manipulation to miracles. _People_ let other people go when they die. But I think we've been saving _humanity_ long enough to determine for ourselves what it is that defines that. And I no longer abide letting my family rest in peace when they could be up here bugging me at a quarter past three in the goddamn morning. I don't know who I was bullshitting," he wonders aloud. "I never even liked _people_. It's _humans_ I like. I think Cas maybe taught me to look down on us and... marvel a little bit. Yeah," he decides. "Humans. We're pretty good."

Sam just smiles.

"Am I done? Am I going back to bed?"

"Do I fit in there? In humanity?"

"I said 'we' didn't I? What the hell do you want from me? You're the best thing in my life, kid. You want me to make the damn coffee? You want me to get in the car?"

Sam takes a breath. "Nah. I want you to go back to bed. I want people to come to me bitching about how you're ten times as grumpy to them in your old age. That way I'll look like the cool, easy-going uncle and you'll look like the stickler prick."

"Great. Good luck with that. Is Chuck okay?"

"He's asleep."

"Good for him. I'm asking if everything-"

"Yeah. We're fine. I just. I don't wanna dump on him all the time. And I feel like you're my first-"

"It's what he signed up for. He goes all dewy-eyed and adoring at you and gives the rest of us hell when you feel like this. Let him do his job. Let him yell at us at a more reasonable hour. He at least has a decent sense of time."

Sam laughs and lolls his head on the floor.

"I'm serious. I'll start the coffee if you want but I was up until two hours ago helping Krissy with fucking homework of all things so my vocabulary is like double-limited and it ain't that great to begin with."

"Alright. Okay." Another breath. "Go to sleep. Thanks, Dean."

"Lemme know you're alright in the morning. You'll wake up fine, by the way. You'll let yourself live your life."

He doesn't say anything for a while. "Love you, man."

"Yeah. Call later. Go to sleep."

"Goodnight."

"'Night."

He stares at the screen until it's black. Doesn't get up off the carpet for a while longer.

And when he does, he doesn't shower. He puts his shirt back on and crawls into bed.

Sam places his hand on Chuck's back, below his shoulder. He watches him breathe deep in his sleep and he does his weird supernatural stuff: presses his consciousness forward like he can push it against Chuck's to wake him up.

He doesn't want to wake him up, though. And he's sure his signal, or whatever, isn't strong enough.

You know, this is something they can work on another time. This is just.

Typical brain stuff. And. He really doesn't need to-

"Geeze," Chuck says, slurring into the pillow. "That was kind of startling. Like you figure you're in an empty room and you turn around and someone's just been waiting there but you had headphones on."

"I didn't mean to be creepy."

"You're awake. It's different when we're both asleep."

"Yeah, I know. I." He stops before he can start. Before he can say, _I had to. I feel like dying. I thought Dean would help but there's only so much he can do that he hasn't done for me a million-million times._ "Sorry. I was just alone in the dark. Go back to sleep. I'll feel better once-"

Chuck rolls to splay out on his back. "You're like _steeped_ in _the voice_ right now. You expect me to believe that?"

Yeah. Yeah, okay.  
Chuck knows the 'boo-boo voice,' too, though he's a bit more merciful about it.

Sam sighs and gives the fuck up.

He pulls the sheets away completely, moves Chuck back into the middle of the bed, tucks them both in, then tangles himself around Chuck. Cuddles up, head on his chest.

"Tell me why you feel bad," Chuck requests, already fully awake and ready. Patient.

Doing his job.

God.

Sam scrubs rough at his temple. "Well. Um. Sometimes." He blows out a breath and says it in a way that's more plain and true than he's ever simply spoken it: "Sometimes I want to die. It's not just that I think I should be dead by now. It's that I think the world would feel like it got rid of a virus if it coughed me out. Like it would go back to normal and be a good, clean, fucking functional place if I just weren't here."

"I'm gonna kick god's ass. When we get to heaven and there's all these asshole angels standing around directing traffic and escorting people to their fields of dreams or whatever and I show up, there better be a scatter because I'm already giving them a good enough head-start. They better book it. They better fucking run from me. I'm gonna strangle literally everyone. They've started enough end-times on this plane, don't you think? What if we just brought an apocalypse home to heaven. I'll lay 66 seals of carnage on those motherfuckers see how much they like it."

Sam is-  
He's just-  
He doesn't know what to say to that.

They're quiet for a long time.

As his eyes adjust to the dark, he can see Chuck's fingers plucking at the edge of the comforter.

He takes a deep breath and pulls his arms out of the covers to wrap around Sam.

"You and me are down here trying to decide what we're gonna be here for. You and me are working on that. We'll get into the house you build and we'll settle in and we'll decide what to make of our future once we got our roots dug deep. And it won't be the all-time answer to everything. And sometimes you'll feel like shit and sometimes you'll wake up wanting it all to be over with and to just die. I can't tell you to stay alive for me, Sam. I can't take control of you like that, just like I can't give you a miracle insta-fix for depression. But I can tell you how much I want you to live. Which is _loads_. And how much time I want to spend here with you. Which is _all of it_. All the available time there is. As many days or months or years as you'll stay alive with me, I want to share that time with you. So you could let me. And you can trust me when I tell you that I know you feel like shit and I want to help. So. For the record? The world wouldn't be better without you. It would be minus one good guy. It would have less of a chance of surviving the next catastrophe. It would be emptier. It would have less light in it. It would blow. I would cry and I would never, ever get over you. My heart would break and I'd want you back enough to beat up god. I'm already gonna punch the shit out of him, so you might as well stick around and work on it with me, first."

He can't do anything about the trail of bodies already behind him.

That's a truth.

He can't do anything - pop some magic pill - or. Well. He can't even pop some pharmaceutical and talk to a professional about this shit.

He talks to the people he has. And they do the best they can with what they've got, considering Sam's problems are more of the I-actually-brought-back-Satan variety. These people just won't let him go. Let him recycle himself into something beautiful. Something that saves the world and looks better for not having Sam Winchester in it.

Chuck rests his hands in Sam's hair. "Wish I could come in there with you. Wish I could see what you need. I don't know if this is good enough." The bind goes softer and closer. Pillow-fort safety and comfort.

Sam shudders out a sigh that he can't even help. It feels fucking good. Seriously good. Better than the regular softness.

Oh, god, he figured out how to do that. Sam loves him so much. "How do you do that?"

"I find the right feeling. Copy/paste. Press it in there. Total manipulation. Anything for my significant other. Please tell me what else," Chuck draws his fingers through Sam's hair again and again.

"No! I wanna know how you do that." He's amazed. Amazed that Chuck figured that out. "I wanna do that."

"Sam? Come on, we can work on it. At a more decent hour; on another day. Can you tell me why we're up right now? So I can help you? Just. Please?"

Sam sinks into that feeling and closes his eyes.  
In the morning.

"We'll wake up together in the morning because we said we wouldn't leave each other alone anymore." That can be good. That can be good enough.

"Sam. That's not-- you don't have to just wade through until the next time you feel this way. You know how we're trying to do maintenance on my head so I don't get bowled-over by other peoples' memories so much anymore? We can do that for you, too. As soon as you have a thought that falls in that direction, we can start talking about it. You can talk to me before you really feel like you've crash-landed. You have to know that. I'm supposed to be there for you."

He can't look away anymore. He sits up and comes even with Chuck and palms his head. "You're there for me. I know you are. You're doing your job."

"But okay," Chuck puts up his hand to make a point. "That first moment when you're in a conversation and you have something to say but you stop. Because you think you _don't get a say_. Because of something you feel is your fault? That's when you grab for my hand and you say it anyway. You have a voice and it needs to be heard and if you need to fall apart about it, we'll do that afterward. And I can tell you as many stories as you tell me to fix me. About how nothing is as plain-and-simple _your fault_ as you tend to remember it. It's never just you, alone, Sam. For as many other people as there have been in your life, there are countless other influences. So I want you to stop thinking of everything as your fault alone. You're never alone. Not in your mistakes and not in your successes and not ever again, anymore. I don't want you to be alone. I want you to be with me. And it takes a lot of courage for me to be like, 'okay, you belong with me' rather than let the world have you. Because I feel like crap, too. We straighten each other out."

He's suddenly a lot more tired than he thought he was. He stays huddled in place against Chuck. "Can you do something for me?"

"Yeah," he shrugs.

"Turn off our morning alarms. We don't have to be up for anything, right?"

Chuck climbs over Sam's body and grabs for his phone on the nightstand. He takes Chuck's ribs and elbows for a minute while he turns the alarms all off, then puts the phone down.

Sam handles him back into place and rests against him.

"Say, 'okay,'" Chuck requests.

"Okay. I believe you. I trust us. I love you."

"Good job. You'll feel better after you've let your brain rest. Go to sleep."

"But _I love you_ ," Sam doesn't know why that's an exception to what he said, but he draws Chuck in tight and plants his mouth against his head.

"That's good. I appreciate it. I love you, too. You're gonna show me how much _when we wake up_ , though."

"Okay," he can say, and go to sleep.

«»

Chuck sneaks back into bed and Sam is a lot more aware of that kind of thing so he wakes without so much as fluttering an eyelash.

He still knows. "Can you wake up all the way, please?" Chuck requests.

Sam blinks.

"Hi. Is it too early for you? If you could still sleep some more, tell me."

Sam closes his eyes again and he reaches slowly up to draw Chuck in.

"Okay," Chuck whispers and settles against him. "Go back to sleep, I'll be right here." He moves his arm out of Sam's way and lets himself be taken in nice and tight.

Then he scritches Sam's head lightly, runs his fingers through his hair, gently pets his head and neck and shoulder until he's unaware of everything again.

The second time Sam awakens, Chuck is kissing his shoulder.

"Hi, Sammy," he finally says against his mouth. "Hi, husband. Was that enough sleep?"

"Plenty," he kisses Chuck back. This is lazy and quiet and nice. It really is nice to go without the alarms. Maybe he didn't realize that he was just exhausted and utterly worn.

"Can we stay here a little longer, anyway?"

"Yeah. Yeah, I think so." He's kind of ready to just have a close, quiet morning, just the two of them.

Chuck hooks Sam's hair behind his ear. "Love you."

Sam smiles. Whatever slow, loving thing Chuck has decided to make out of the day is really nice. He's still not used to it. But he could stand to have some more.

"Beautiful Sammy. With big, gentle hands."

He presses his head into Chuck's, spans his hands wide on him.

Chuck pulls Sam's shirt back into place from where it rode up and rubs his hand over his side. "So good, Sam. God, I love you. You're so perfect to me. I wish I had more words to even explain it. I love your clumsy knees and your bedhead and your warm spine and your wide chest."

"Oh my god," Sam grouches.  
Overload still comes pretty quick when Chuck does this to him. But this time, he doesn't relent.

"I love your sass and the way you grab on to me when you have bad dreams and the way you wanna keep me safe and your brilliant big brain."

"Holy shit. Stop."

"No. I don't think so. I woke up early this morning because you let me be well-rested and you stayed up into the night being soft and sad and then you let me help you. I woke up early and I fell so hard in love with you again that I wanna count the eight billion ways and watch you get flustered. Watch you act like you don't deserve it until you finally take me at my word because you do," he holds Sam's head in his hands. "Oh my god you really do. This world isn't nice enough to my husband. I think I'm gonna fix that this week. I'm gonna touch you and tell you. And you'll know. You'll know how gone I am on you and why you deserve even more than I can verbalize."

"Wow. Fuck. Shut up," he can feel his face burning.

"Make me," Chuck says, and it comes out as a plea. "Do something with my mouth. Put your amazing mouth on mine and let me eat all those awful things you say about yourself until your tongue doesn't remember how to make those words."

Begging works, even when Sam doesn't agree on the subject matter. He moans and kisses Chuck and climbs on top of him. When his mouth kisses away, down Chuck's body, he whines for his 'squid' until Sam can't stand it and wraps tight around him, replaces Chuck's clothes with himself and gets obsessed with touching everyplace he can reach.

Sam goes on a mission to make him lose it but his words don't go away and there's nothing better. He has no idea where this shit is coming from but it's easier to believe with Chuck flat-out _cherishing_ him. "Oh god, oh good, Sam, you're so good. You're amazing. All I ever want is you touching me. You're the only one who's ever done it right. I was lost before I had you to touch me. I didn't want to even be connected to my body and you fixed me and settled me in place and showed me how our bodies are supposed to work together. Always together. Please. With me."

Sam groans against his skin, fed up. "I'm gonna bite you till you shut up," he presses his teeth in and pretends like he'd actually do it without being told.

"Get up here," Chuck requests.

He helps pull Sam on top of himself. Then arranges him so Sam is on all fours, suspended above him. "Please. Please?" Sam kisses him. "Okay, please stay right where I put you. Promise?"

Sam nods, frantic.

Chuck shimmies down under him, pulls his boxers down, and surges up to swallow his cock.

Sam shouts, startled. He's panting like wild and now he's trying to stay in place. Trying not to fuck down into Chuck's open mouth.

He puts his hands to Sam's thighs and pushes. Has to pull off to tell him, "Sit up. It's okay if you wanna fuck me, just be careful-"

"Oh my god," Sam nearly wails.

"Hold my head, okay?" He takes him back in his mouth, but Sam shakes his head. Chuck lets go again to say, "Yes," and draw Sam's hands down until he does.

He's crying out in no time. Closing his eyes and throwing his head back and losing control, the smallest pumps of his hips and it's so amazing. He tries to be careful, he won't let him choke. Then he knows he can't control himself so Sam drops back to his hands and comes.

It's hotter than he imagined. It's exactly as amazing as Chuck makes everything. Just everything.

Sam yanks him up the bed, still panting like wild, and moans to find Chuck's already coated his own palm in the heat of it. He licks it clean and can't stop rolling against him.

"Oh god oh god. What the fuck," he kind of marvels.

"Okay," Chuck has to clear his throat. It's a little raw. "Your turn." Sam surges into him, pins him to the bed, beneath him. "You get to do something for me."

"Please. _Please_. Anything. Please."

"I want a big hickey on me. One big one. If you want everyone to see it, then that's what I need. I need whatever you need to give me. If you want it someplace only you can go, that's fine. Big one. Go ahead."

"What the hell is going on right now?? I'm gonna think about this at lunch or just in the middle of something and get the most inappropriate wood ever."

Chuck holds him close and waits to be kissed and lets it go on as long as Sam wants. "You know what gives me the most peaceful feeling in the world?" He brushes Sam's hair back. "Being us. You and me being us. It feels better than anything. When we're super _us?_ It feels super good. What I'm saying is that I know that you know better than I do what it is that makes us an _us_. So please do that, Sam. Do that for me today. Because I want to spend my whole life with you and all I get is just the years I've got left. I wanna tell you how good you are today and I want you to be peaceful with me. And easy. And sleepy and hot and happy."

God. He gets it. "You planned this??" he asks, amazed.

"I planned this. I woke up and it occurred to me and this is how it's gonna be. Okay?"

"Well who the hell am I to argue?" he says with wonder, and drops to suck a mark into Chuck's side.

He gasps as Sam works, babbles, "You're so beautiful. So smart. So big and wonderful. Oh fuck. I wanna write books with you for the rest of my life. Wake up with you and do laundry with you and drive with you and keep your mind safe." He runs fingers through Sam's hair and grips when Sam moans into his skin. "Sammy. Love you. Love your mouth. Love your smile. Fucking wild about the way you treat me. You're amazing."

A sigh surges through him and he lets up on Chuck's skin to glare up at him. "Okay. Seriously, what is this? Where did this come from?"

"I'm plotting the downfall of all your enemies at once. Preemptively removing the ammunition from their supplies. I've decided you never get to feel bad again." He palms Sam's face and looks down to him. "I'm allowed to do this. Nothing you can say or do will stop me. I'm happy that you're starting to forget what it's like to be perpetually sad, but it's gonna go faster, now. I want you to always be as happy as you deserve. And you deserve to be happy all the time. I say so. I'm laying down the law." He wears a stubborn expression and Sam goes from kinda bothered to... conflicted. "We always do what I wanna do," Chuck changes tack to wheedling. "Why can't you show me what you want? What makes you happy? You give me too much."

Sam drops his head to Chuck's stomach. Kisses the mark he was making and rises. "I wanna do stuff for you. I wanna hold you like you deserve and be all about you. I want to fit into your life."

"That's not fair and you know it," Chuck chides. "It's _our_ life, not mine or yours separately anymore. When you treat me like this it makes this need swell up inside me: it makes me need you to feel this, too. So I'm praising you this week and soaking you in it so I can turn to you more often and know that I'll see you happy. I just want you to be so happy. I will gladly work on this for the rest of time, but it should be maintenance, Sam. _Upkeep_ of your happiness. I want you to really be happy now so this week I'm working on weeding out the shit that impedes my plans to have a happy, healthy husband. I love you."

Sam _absolutely_ blushes at that, and drops his head into Chuck's neck. "Please stop," he tries one more time.

Chuck lifts his head to tell him, "No." Then pushes Sam to his back and makes out with him, rubs his hands all over him, until he's moaning again and then Chuck gets up to fill the tub. Sam kind of hovers behind him and waits.

Because, apparently, Chuck is in charge right now.

"Just because I'm bossing your brain around doesn't mean you have to be quiet," he prompts, adjusting the water, then turning to bring Sam in.

"Can. Can I ask you for something?" Sam hesitates to ask.

"Of course," Chuck shrugs.

"Will you. Since you're doing this ridiculous thing. Can I ask for you to do things?"

"Yeeees," he draws out. "That's kinda the point. What sort of things?"

Sam watches the water fill for a moment and doesn't say.

"Get in? Please?" Chuck asks.

So Sam does. Makes as much room as he can for Chuck to fit in the small space with him.

But he crouches next to the tub and scoops water on Sam's head until he just pulls the showerhead down to get the rest. Then Chuck stops the water to get in on top of him.

"What sorta stuff, Sam?" he prompts again, and grabs Sam's shampoo.

Oh, fuck yes. "I think you're already doing it," he watches Chuck's hands. Holy shit, yes. He's gonna do it again.

"I'm allowed, right? Tell me if I do anything wrong."

Sam leans forward and lets Chuck start washing his hair. Chuck has to turn to add more water after a while and, after, the only sounds in the absence of the faucet's noise is dripping, the slosh of water, the hush of Chuck's hands through his hair.

"Tell me when you like stuff. Tell me what you want more of."

"Harder?" Sam asks.

So Chuck slows his hands and sort of massages as he scrubs. He scoots on Sam's lap to come closer. Kisses Sam's face. "How fucking lucky am I? That I love an amazing person who loves me back and trusts me. Likes waking up with me and hearing me. You need me to relax. I'll show you how. I'll make you so happy, Sam. I promise."

Sam holds his hips. "You already do."

"I need to wash it out for you," he reaches up to grab the hose on the shower head until it falls to his hands again. He turns the spray on light and rinses Sam's head. Shuts off the water. Moves on to the next step.

"Oh my god," Sam says after a while, into the silence, because he can't handle what Chuck's suddenly decided for him this morning. Chuck ignores it.

"What do you want me to do for you after this?"

"Oh god. Um. I don't know."

"How about I wash the rest of you and then you can touch me however you want for a while," he asks.

"Okay," Sam agrees with a breath.

Chuck lies about this.

He does wash and touch and scrub and clean Sam all over. Then he gets Sam hanging over the other end of the tub and Sam is so relaxed and feels so cared for and so post-orgasm loose and easy, Chuck turns from kissing his back to ask if he can try his hand at eating him out.

Sam tries to be really good when Chuck is blowing him. He doesn't thrust unless Chuck feels like he can take it. They've built up a really good bit of communication when they do that. Likewise, Sam has had to tell Chuck when he wants him in his own mouth harder and faster.

But when Sam does _this_ for Chuck, it's pretty sudden and has to end before Sam would like. Chuck can't take much of it. He says it's intense.

Chuck doing it for Sam is different. Sam can't talk. It's just strained noises coming out of his throat. He also goes from loose and half-liquid to rearing back again and again without restraint. Chuck has to really get his knees under himself so he doesn't slip and he takes a grip on Sam's thighs that would bruise anyone else. The strength he has in his wiry arms that he doesn't always use, he can keep Sam's hips in place and spread his steady hands, keep his fingertips tight and direct Sam and sway into his movements.

Eventually Sam resorts to reaching back and pushing Chuck away from him to get his breath and curse and reel for a moment, head crashed against his arm.

Chuck lets him ride it out for a minute, kisses up the backs of his legs and talks against his skin. "Tell me how much more you want."

Sam breathes. "Donno if I. Can. If I can handle. If I." He just motions vaguely.

"You need me to leave it? For now?"

Sam hesitates. So Chuck decides to push forward again.

It's fucking.  
It's.  
It's seriously incredible, holy shit.

Chuck tests some, with his mouth and his thumb. Light, slow, wet, drawn-out penetration, just a little. Sam closes his eyes and feels his face and lips there. A tremor rocks through him. He wants to stay relaxed and open and... this is good. It feels good. Chuck is so fucking gentle and kind of deft and those are the hands he loves, the fingers that write - that's the person he can trust. Sam has to deep-breathe and lets himself make completely ridiculous noises and-- fuck. When Chuck breathes, he can feel it. He--

It's too much. Suddenly it's too much.  
He tenses up. And he can't hide it.

Sam locks up, no matter how gentle it is. No matter how good. No matter how much he can trust his husband. And he can't. He feels his insides lock up, his muscles clench. He can't reverse it. All at once he pulls away and tenses.

He can't _not_ do it. He can't get back to where he was losing himself in it.  
He can't do it. He's ready. But he's not ready. He's kind of angry with himself. And a little too messed up about that to really feel anything but overwhelmed. He grips the tub. Slams his palm there. Can't undo what his body just did.

Chuck doesn't make him say it. He asks, "You okay?" And when Sam can't say that he's not, "Okay." Instead, Chuck eases down to soft bites and kissing across the rest of his skin and Sam can breathe again. Chuck pets his sides until he has to help him collapse back into the water.

"Okay," Sam finally babbles, "okay. Now it's my turn to touch you. Now that's what I want. I wanna sit in here and be with you. Then I want food. And coffee. And to drive with you. Just drive." Because that was hard to do, maybe. It was good but intense and. He trusts this person. He wants more from this person. He even wants to trust him enough to keep going.

But they have time. They can work on this. And, in between, he can do what he's really good at.

"Anything you want," Chuck promises, and moves back into Sam's arms. "I love you. You do everything so amazingly."

"Oh my god, I'm gonna shut you up."

He doesn't manage that at all for the five days Chuck persists in assaulting him. Then, he caps it off with the secret project.

Goddamnit.

A secret fucking project.

Sam has no idea when he managed to do it. Chuck added a PDF to Sam's phone and simply waited for him to find it.

It's the story of how he fell in love with Sam without him ever knowing. Before Sam actually even met him.

 _Supernatural_ from the narrator's chair.

It's a chest-tightening mix of revisiting Chuck's alcoholism, the sheer, unfiltered _pining_ , and a lot of situation-specific praise that makes him turn the screen off half-way, toss it aside, and snap Chuck up out of the kitchen.

He's shaking and he can't hide it. Can't hide it like Chuck hid this secret goddamn project from him. Chuck just made his history of lame-ass 'best intentions' look like the justified and logical and hopeful acts he'd thought they were when he was that fucking young and stupid. He'd made it sound like it was worth it to get kicked around by Zachariah to just _see_ more of Sam and know he was alive. And at the point where Chuck starts protecting him, stops details from entering the text simply so people would see Sam for those intentions, not his mistakes,--

There was no way he'd be able to read what Chuck thought seeing the end. There's a conversation that starts with Zachariah after Chuck first met them. About what he saw. About the end and--

"I don't care that you just spent the better part of a week telling me that I do-- Chuck. I really don't deserve you. This. Our whole-- I wish I did deserve it. I wish I was still who you fell in love with way back then. But I'm not."

"You didn't let the story finish, did you?" Chuck gripes. "You are who you were, plus all the upgrades and changes and learning and then some. You're perfect. Even when you don't feel like you are. Please stop telling me I can't say this stuff about you. I love to talk about why I love you. Please let me. I won't shove it in your face anymore if you do one thing for me."

Sam slides to his knees on the kitchen floor and keeps hold of Chuck's legs. "I know what this will be. I'm not playing dumb anymore."

Intrigued, Chuck raises an eyebrow and takes hold of his head. "Okay."

"You want me to agree that I'm worth it. That I put work into us like you do and I deserve to feel good, too."

"Good job," he says softly, petting Sam's head, "yeah. But I want one more thing on top of it: Tell me that you believe I am pathetically, totally, absolutely in love with you in the most all-consuming way. Tell me why."

"Why?"

"Pop quiz. Tell me why I love you. It was right there in your study material."

Sam's at a loss. "But I didn't." He stops again. "But I thought the right answer was. Um. _Because_. Just because?"

Chuck smiles. "You passed. See? It turns out you don't have to fight armies of demons to earn being loved, after all." He spreads his hands like, _tah-dah_. "I will actually, literally love you all the time, anyway. Just like I did when I thought I was dreaming you up because I so... goddamn _desperately_ wanted someone _so good_ to exist in the world."

Sam clunks his head into Chuck's knees. "Significant other. I'm never gonna get over this."

"I hope not. I really enjoy upheaving your whole world."

"I hope you enjoy _being_ my world because the only place I wanna exist anymore is in your orbit," he looks up suddenly. "Chuck? Oh my god. Gimme your ring," he grabs for Chuck's right hand.

"No," he yanks it away.

"I'm not taking it. I'll give it right back!"

"What-why are-"

Even from his knees he can stretch far enough to catch Chuck's hand up and grab his engagement ring off. He shifts and sits back a bit. "You know why," he says. Clears his throat. Offers the ring back up. "Will you please marry me?"

Chuck always tosses his hands up and goes all soft and frowny over it when he repeats his proposal; it never fails. "Oh god. Yes. Yeah, Sammy."

Sam grabs his hand back up and puts the ring back where it belongs. "Thanks. You know I gotta check every now and again."

"Praise week isn't over. Ever. You get that now, right?"

"Yeah. I get it. I just. Can we go back to normal now? Where I take care of my tiny hermit crab because it's my favorite thing? I like switching things up a little. I do. But I also like that _you_ like that I'm huge and I can't help myself around you."

Chuck nods.

"Will you read the rest of your story to me?"

Chuck pets his head again. "I'll end up crying. I was crying when I wrote some of it."

Sam finally stands. "And you didn't tell me?"

"You were asleep. It was a surprise."

"Come on," he drags him back to the couch. "I'm sorry, but I kinda love it when you cry because you're so in love with me. Please read more to me?"

«»

After Chuck is done being ridiculous with his "praise week" they go north. They work on the house late into the night. Until Chuck drops the tape measure once, twice, three times, and laughs watching himself drop it a fourth.

"Oookay." Sam pushes his stuff aside, crosses to scoop it off the floor and put it on the bench. He pulls Chuck's work goggles up and off and Chuck blinks. Slowly.

He takes his own off and then pries the pencil out of Chuck's hand.

"C'mon. Bed time."

"I'm exhausted," Chuck observes as Sam leads him out to the truck.

"Yeah you are."

"Don't you need my help with the fence?"

"I can get the fence. I'll get everything. You're gonna sit down before you fall down," he opens the passenger side and Chuck works on autopilot, grabbing his hand for support, without question. Lets himself be handed into the truck. Lets Sam dig the key out of his pocket.

He just sort of sits back with his hands up when Sam moves to buckle him in.

"Okay?" Sam checks.

Chuck draws his face close and gets his mouth off-center. "I'm gonna fall to fucking sleep if you leave me here," he blinks and his voice is dull.

"Yeah. Probably," Sam agrees.

Chuck's half-dozing, still blinking by the time he closes the fence up behind them. He's solid asleep by the time Sam parks back at the motel.

"Chuck," Sam says, and he's completely unresponsive.

Sam kills the engine and goes to unlock and prop open the door, but he can't actually leave Chuck asleep in the parking lot. It makes his eyes dart to the dark corners, makes him distrust the stillness of the trees, the quiet of the empty road.

He passes the keys between his hands. Something within him tells him he can't unload the truck first - he has to get Chuck inside.

He straightens his back and his eyes don't leave the car as he edges the door open, drags over the trash bin to keep it that way.

When he opens the passenger door, Chuck still doesn't move.

He shakes his hair out of his face and climbs up. "Chuck?" he takes his wrist and actually feels for his pulse because he's a dork with serious issues. "Crab," he tugs a little. "Crab I'm gonna have to pick you up." He unbuckles him and starts tugging him out of the seat.

Chuck's grumble is wordless, sad and moaning.

"Then use your claws, crab-"

He clings and Sam shifts him out easily.

Sam closes the door behind himself so the lock clicks when he goes out to the parking lot. And that's only after checking the wards and the salt lines. He needs their room to be sealed and safe right now.

It still feels creepy out here. He grabs all their stuff - all of it, including what he knows they won't need until tomorrow - and hauls it all back inside. He sets the locks. Checks them. Draws the curtains. Doesn't close the bathroom door while he's in there. Circles the room and makes sure everything is where it was. Makes sure things go in the bags they're supposed to be in.

When a feeling shakes him like this, it's normally instinct, at the top of its lungs. But the fact that Chuck can sleep through it when he's got a more average, human-level creep detector, either means he's overreacting and paranoid about something or--

Or Chuck feels so safe in his presence that he hasn't got a care in the world.

Chuck's creep meter may either be shut off while sleeping or whacked from already being a Winchester too long. So Sam just decides to feel like he's doing his job right. That whatever's out there can't get to the smallest bit of them, safe in the sheets or packed away in the bags. The wards or whatever are keeping everything solid. No one can watch them from in here. And as soon as he's got the sheets pulled up around his shoulders, as soon as he's got his husband in his arms, everything will be unbreakably secure. Whatever's out there will retreat or wither at the threat of the rising sun.

He pulls Chuck's stuff off and makes him comfortable. Then he taps off the alarms on his phone. Tomorrow will have to be a lazier day; Chuck's too wiped-out.

He makes sure the last light that will have to be turned off is one he can reach from the bed.

It answers his need to _see_ everything back where it belongs one last time before he follows Chuck off to sleep.

Sam tugs him in and he's careful and quiet. Should be gentle enough that Chuck doesn't wake, but he shakes it off one more time.

"Yo'kay?" he slurs.

"Goosebumpy, that's all."

"World feels creepy sometimes," Chuck doesn't even blow him off when he's half-conscious. "Let it go, squid. I don't think the world can fuck wit'cha."

"I think it can."

"Not with me here."

"Nah, not with you here. It gives me a little more caution."

"No, I mean," Chuck yawns, painful-wide and teary-eyed, but petting at Sam's arm, tight around him, "if someone tries shit when you're being like this with me, you'd rip their spine out." He snores. Totally gone.

If that's a comforting enough thought for him to fall asleep to, Sam decides he can agree.

Turns off the lamp.


	7. i should probably just exit the same way i came in

Dean's calling.

"Come back to the motel. I didn't do it."

Cas gives Sam's phone an unimpressed side-eye. Sam has to laugh.

"You should see Cas's face. What _didn't_ you do?"

Dean sighs. "Just get here." Hangs up.

So him and Cas don't figure it's an emergency. They stop for food and coffee and traffic sucks so it's another hour before they even pull in to the parking lot.

Dean's flipping through a magazine when they get there and Charlie's on the bed with her feet in the air, on her laptop.

They tell them what they heard at the sheriff's office and pass out food. Cas brings some to Krissy and Josie and Sam asks for an update on Dean's interview at the train station.

He clears his throat and takes the rest of the drinks in the tray from him, shoos him off. "Go talk to Chuck, first."

Oh. Great. So Dean did something to piss him off again. He glares, but he goes.

His hands are full and the door is locked. He kind of kicks out the code with the toe of his shoe. Calls, "It's me."

The door cracks and then closes so Chuck can pull the chain and let him in.

"What did Dean do?" he hands over a coffee and pulls the food out at the table.

Chuck knows the rules, but he closes and locks the door, anyhow.

"Nothing," he finally says. "Um. It was me this time."

"Okay?" He holds out his hand to draw Chuck to the table, but he doesn't take it. Sits opposite.

"Um." He takes a breath. "I wanted to see the suspect, myself, so I went with as Dean's 'photographer' and. Uh."

He just stops. He's avoiding eye contact. He opens his coffee. Sets the lid aside and doesn't touch his food. There's a weird, careful stiffness to his movements.

Sam immediately wants to murder someone. The fucking _Kill Bill_ siren goes off in his head.

He gets up, moves around the table, pulls the coffee out of Chuck's hand. "What hurts?"

Chuck winces. "Like, my left. My whole left."

"Tell me what he did," he demands, and pulls Chuck up as gently as he possibly can to skim hands over him, unzip and skim his hoodie off his left side.

"He ran for it. Grabbed me and threw me off the platform. Dean was- it wasn't Dean's fault. He ran him down, clocked him. Twice. For me. Dean did his job."

There's deep red everywhere, a bruise forming on Chuck's neck. Sam lifts his shirt collar to trace it and it just keeps going down.

Sam takes his hoodie and his shirt completely off. There's almost a full handprint on Chuck's right arm from being grabbed and thrown and his entire left side is one developing bruise from the landing.

"Sam, calm down," he finally meets his eyes and Sam sees an angled mark on his cheek, hidden in the scruff.

Yeah. He's breathing hard and he can't stop. He's got a hold on Chuck's wrists like he might draw him off to have Cas fix him _now_ and at the same time he's brimming with caveman feelings that make him want to bar the door and cover every inch of discoloration with his mouth.

No one is EVER supposed to leave marks on Chuck. Being told he's allowed to do that is a _present_ that Sam _cherishes_. He's so _fucking_ angry.

"Dean knocked him out cold for me, I swear. It's totally cool. Now that Cas is back-" he shakes his head. "But you know what? Come here." He tries to turn away and Sam can't let him. "Sam. Get the food and come to bed."

"No food in bed," he recites, his voice barely functioning.

"Somebody else broke the rules today, so you get to break the rules, now," Chuck explains, taking his hands back to tangle their fingers.

"No," Sam hears himself whine. He doesn't _want_ to break the rules. They're his _marriage_. Other people don't get to barge in and break their agreements with each other.

"Oh, Sammy," Chuck breathes. "Then come here. Come sit. I'll sit on your lap."

"I should fix you," he protests. "Cas is wi-"

"I need you to touch me before Cas does," he looks freaked. "Somebody else grabbed me. I need you to touch me first."

_Yes._ he's supposed to erase anyone else. "Okay," he agrees.

They're both bothered by now. Sam tucks himself around his husband and they share their lunches and Sam slow-touches all down his skin then comes back over it holding and kissing like normal.

"I'm okay," Chuck says after a while. "I'm better, so, good job."

Sam turns his head to watch him repeat:

"I'm better. Thank you."

"When you wanna go hunting, you should go with _me_."

"We both know that's not always possible."

"Dean knocked him out?"

"Yeah. Give him a hug from us. Let's get Cas a bowtie so he can always fuss at it and he gets warm-fuzzies thinking about how adorable he is."

Sam clunks his head gently against his. "You're so creative. My significant other is so brilliant and beautiful," he ends up whispering into his skin. "Can we go fix you now?"

"Yeah. Help me put my shirt back on, it hurts to lift my arm."

Sam just opens his mouth and puts it on Chuck's skin, a wet-hot-rough exhale. He _hurts_. Sam wants a fucking volcano to consume this city.

Dean knocks while he's helping Chuck get his shoes on.

"God, you're such a fucking girl," he gripes when Sam glomps him. But he hugs back. Then shoves Cas into the room.

"You'll have to give permission," Cas says before he even puts his fingers up toward Chuck.

"Um. How do we do that?"

"Come here," Chuck holds out his hand and Sam comes to grab it up.

Then a feeling like Chuck is shoving up against the bind and closes his eyes. "Try it this way?"

So Sam concentrates on it and tries to hold that Chuck-feeling close to himself. Kind of envisions throwing off the covers and letting Cas approach.

"Are you ready?" he asks Chuck.

"Go for it."

"Sam? Do you need to, like, tell Cas he has permission or something? Don't burn him," Dean says.

Sam closes his eyes with Chuck. "Go ahead, Cas."

He can feel when Cas intrudes. It's momentary and the bind shudders like Chuck is startled. But nothing feels forced. It's like Cas runs his hand against their bind and then pulls right back.

He opens his eyes and tugs on Chuck's hand. Leans down to check under his collar. Pokes at where a bruise used to be.

Chuck blinks his eyes open. "Thanks, Cas." He inhales-exhales big. "I didn't realize it was hard to even breathe."

"You cracked a rib." And they both look to him because he sounds confused.

He's staring.

"What's up?" Dean comes in from hovering in the doorway.

"It was." Cas shakes his head. Straightens up and finally drops his hand. "I'm sorry. That was private."

But it looks like he's trying not to stare and failing.

Chuck smirks at him.

"Am I missing something?" Sam drops to sit next to Chuck. Flattens his hand out on his thigh.

"It was." Cas hesitates. "It was soft. It felt like." He blinks.

"Like what?" Dean pries.

"Um. Trees. When trees and grass were made. The first time I felt ivy. Ferns."

"Ferns. It fuckin feels like ferns," Dean says, unimpressed. "You can kill people with it and it feels like houseplants."

Cas squints, looking for the right words. "Like the _creation_ of. Um. Green things."

Hm. He shrugs and looks to Chuck.  
Chuck shrugs, too.

Dean rolls his entire head when he rolls his eyes.

"That's lame," he proclaims.

Cas turns. "What _should_ it feel like?" he challenges.

"I donno," Dean shrugs. "One long orgasm."

"Maybe that's just what it feels like to Cas from the outside," Chuck points out, shrugs. "Maybe he feels plants from where he is."

"So what does it feel like from the inside?" Dean presses.

They don't answer.

For the most part it's none of Dean's business.

But, there's also another piece of Sam (and probably Chuck, too) that doesn't want to shove something in Dean's face that he won't be able to experience.

Dean waves them off after a moment. "Fine, whatever. We got more suspects to track down." He leaves.

"I think you should take away permission, after. Not leave it open-ended," Cas suggests. "Spells tend to require attention to technicalities like that."

Chuck nods, "Okay. Then, no offense, Cas, but you don't have permission anymore."

"Yeah," Sam agrees. "Permission un-granted."

Cas smiles at them.

"Could you hear us- hear our heads? When we gave you permission?"

"I think if I had been trying to tune in, that's very likely. I was directing my thoughts elsewhere, though, as I commonly do at Dean's request. But Sam is very familiar. I think I would have found my way in. Just remember, when you give permission, to rescind it again. You both did too much work for the spell to fail in its purpose on a technicality," he shrugs.

"Good lookin out, Cas. Thanks," Sam returns his smile and Cas turns to follow after Dean.

"That's a really good point," Chuck looks worried and earnest.

"Exploitable," Sam agrees.

"I won't let that happen to you," Chuck insists.

"I know, sweetheart. You're really careful with me," he palms the back of his head, "but I need you to be careful with yourself, too. If you want to go back out in the field-"

"Dean did just fine. It was my-"

"Yeah, but I'd rather it was me who was there." So he could've beaten the other guy bloody. Or prevented it entirely.

"I think I'll just stay in for the rest of the case," Chuck sighs. "I've had enough adventure for the week."

"And not enough writing," Sam adds.

"What?"

"Well, you said you wanted to work on your own fiction, now," Sam points out. He said he finally felt like he was free to tell his own stories. He really wants Chuck to feel like he can do his art. This is another project that Chuck should be able to open and enjoy. "I'll take your research from the case and we'll work on it and you won't have to hold the phones or anything. Just do your writing and I'll come home to you."

Chuck sighs. "I was totally wrong about the guy. He thought he was getting run down for a drug business he had on the side, faking prescriptions or whatever. He wasn't even our guy. Maybe I should keep my nose out of it for a while."

"It's not like you're useless. You always have good ideas when we ask you for them. But you don't have to be completely integrated into every case. We can handle the footwork. When we need you to rescue us with some completely off-the-wall piece of lore, we'll know exactly where to find you. I know Cas can fix you, but I didn't need you to be in pain until he showed up. We're fine. You don't need the mental stress of The Job. What you do need is time to be allowed to work on your writing," Sam kisses his head. "So do that. And tell me about it when we get back. I want you to prioritize your own stuff sometimes."

Chuck leans into him so he can be held. Sam can feel the far-away impression of his thoughts. He can do whatever he wants - truly. No one is allowed to tell Chuck whether he can be involved in cases or not. What he does need to think about is how there are already professionals who have it in hand. And Sam wants to give him the kind of life where he can detach from those potential horrors - not aggravate his bruised brain - and have time for beautiful stuff, instead. Not just their house or their plans for the future; his very own stuff. The things that belong exclusively to Chuck -- those can't disappear behind their marriage. Sam loves him for who he is, not just what they are together.

"You still have to call if you need me. You can't just decide not to bother me in case I'm writing. My life and limb aren't on the line."

But his _mind_ is, along with his general wellbeing. "We will call if we genuinely need you to handle something that we can't," Sam qualifies. "Write. Do your art. I love you. Do you feel all healed? No aches left?"

"Cas knows what he's doing," Chuck nods. "Help me with my creativity before you go."

"Oka-" Chuck grabs him and kisses him. Supposedly he requires makeouts and promising whispers to get the juices flowing.

For the rest of the hunt, it bugs him. And, for as much as they didn't allow Dean to pry into the bind, it's kinda hypocritical of him to want to ask Cas about the inside of Chuck's head. But, you know, technically he is the one with permission. And it's still bugging him that he can't see anything.

But. He's just. He just has to ask. Just one thing.

"Could you tell how clearly he can see me?" the question bursts out of him when Cas stops the car, before they head back in with more case files.

Cas pauses, confused.

Sam clears his throat. "Chuck. Could you tell how clear the image is for him? The image of me, how much he can-- he, he can see me? But I can't see him."

Cas sits back and presses his lips tight. "I could tell that he's comfortable with how much of the connection he can access and how instinctively he understands what he feels of the bind. I can tell that it's much more a feeling to him and a visual impression to you. Chuck has the structure already there and he's begun adjusting it. I don't know... I can't tell if it's with the object of showing things to you more clearly or if-- I only know that his mental landscape has been... he's been trying to adjust things and I can only imagine it's to draw you close. It's so you'll be comfortable with him. But. He doesn't push forward? That would be too intrusive. He understands," Cas motions to himself, "as I do, that, despite your more intimate knowledge of each other and the nature of your connection, an intrusion from his side of things to your side of things would be hard. He is already aware of the amount of unconscious resistance there and, for your sake - for your mental health - he won't make you self-conscious about it. It could only serve to build self-loathing on your part which could compact the caution and fear. He. He may be too cautious with you. But. He does know you. When you are ready for these things, I think he'll know."

Sam thinks about this. Okay. "So there is more to it. And I'm just constipated. Like he said I am."

"There is more to it and, given time, you will experience more of it."

Cas is careful about that. Careful not to promise Sam that he'll see _someday_ because, to his knowledge, Chuck ran out of days long ago. Cas was willing to help them put their marriage together, but he can't promise Sam that all the damage inside of Chuck can be undone. He can't say that Sam will actually see the day when he's ready to cross that distance between their minds.

A grim little reminder that, by the time Sam is ready, his husband may be dead.

Sam gets out of the car with the files.

He regrets asking.

«»

He comes back to the motel from the graveyard. He's got dirt in his shoes.

And his hair. And under his nails.

Enough grave dirt to perform a minor summoning.

He knocks out the code and hears a clatter before Chuck checks and then opens the door.

"Oh my god. Did you get pushed into an open-"

"Yeah."

"God. That's some bullshit." He locks up. "Gimme your clothes. I've got a plastic bag so nothing else gets dirt in it. Is your back okay from falling that deep?"

"Got shoved. My leg was all fucked up but Cas got me."

"Get naked."

Sam wrestles himself out of his clothes, dusting the bathroom floor with more soil.

"Uh. Shake your head out before-- hold on." Chuck steps into the tub. "Instant mud pie, just add water. Lean over and let me shake all of this out of your hair."

Sam does as he's told. He lets his husband take care of him and sprinkles him with grave dirt in the process.

He brushes off Chuck's arms when they're done fluffing his hair all to hell, but Chuck just shrugs and strips and helps Sam clean up. He even stands in the spray until it's warm. He even gets the goddamn dirt out of Sam's bellybutton.

"You are the actual, literal best," Sam clunks their heads together and takes his turn soaping Chuck up. "Tell me how your writing is going so far," he says over the water.

Chuck closes his eyes and lets Sam handle him. "I'm tired. It's a lot of thinking. A lot of... plotting. I don't know. I'm happy with my plan, but who knows how it will turn out." He opens his eyes. "Thanks for telling me to just sit and do art. I need that sometimes and it's nice that it's something you don't mind. I can get back into the lore or the research whenever you need me to."

"I need you to put your stuff first for a while." Frankly, he needs Chuck to be protected for a bit. He needs him not to have a breakdown over shattered plates or panic over hunts or get physically battered or spiritually crushed or any more mentally scarred than he already is. He needs Chuck to sit these out sometimes. He needs the chance to try to preserve his life if it can't conceivably be extended.

It struck Sam, after he spoke to Cas, that Chuck still hasn't disappeared behind a mess of memory since before the wedding. Maybe Sam got what he asked for. Maybe the spell or the rings are keeping Chuck from being dragged under.

Or maybe they're overdue for a seriously staggering event. One that removes Chuck from his own bones for days.

He's watching for it, now. Maybe he can't see across the distance of the bind with much clarity, but he can take advantage of foresight. He can take preventative measures. He can monitor for changes.

One thing Cas made clear is that, when Chuck told him to be patient with himself and the bind, he wasn't guessing at that shit. He knows. He knows better than Sam, and Cas knows better than both of them. And Cas said that Sam is standing in his own way.

He can do a little of this. He can pour gallons of a feeling across the bind and make Chuck stuttery in love with him. He can lose track of his own emotions and accidentally expose Chuck to an intense feeling. And he can touch him and give even more clarity to these sensations.

Chuck gasps. Sam's hot for him. Sam wants to come in him. Sam wants him to talk about what he does to his body.

See? He can prove that he can do some of this. So. It's like the exorcisms. He flexed his muscles. He worked on it. He learned.

Chuck shudders and almost slips backing away from him.

Sam's hand flashes out to steady him and he slams his hand on the knob to turn the water off.

Chuck is standing away from him, shocked, staring.

"Are you okay? What happened?" Sam demands.

Chuck's eyes go wider and he gets out and grabs a towel.

"Chuck," Sam follows him out, grabbing another towel.

"Please don't throw that kind of thing at me. I just. I completely disagree. Whatever you were thinking, the correct answer is 'no, that will not work.'"

"What do you mean? I--"  
Was thinking of demon blood. Demon blood and the psychic powers that come along with it.

He watches Chuck walk away from him, out into the room, head down, avoidant, scooting around Sam to get to the door, towel clamped over himself in a white-knuckled fist.

Sam squeezes his hair out over the sink and turns. "Okay," he decides the only way he can fix this is by being completely clear and honest and thinking aloud. "Okay, I know what I did wrong there." He follows Chuck out and watches him find clothes. "I'm desperate," he admits. "I'd do anything to hear you."

Chuck dead-stops what he's doing. He drops everything back into the bag and turns to sit on the bed. "Alright. Will you listen to me out loud first?" He takes a breath and looks up. "Please?"

Sam comes and sits on the bed next to him, tucks his wet hair behind his ears. "Yes. _I'm sorry_." He reaches to sweep Chuck's wet hair back, too.

"Stop. Listen." Chuck pauses then he talks with his hands slicing the air. "This is not-- I know you can't tell yet but this is not at all going to be like what you felt when you were on demon blood. Do you know how I know?"

Sam shrugs and licks his lips. "Tell me."

"Because I knew Andy better than you. I knew Ava better than you. When they got to the point where they could walk around inside other peoples' heads, it was nothing like what I'm experiencing with you."

Sam starts to step in but Chuck definitively stops him.

"We're not invading one another. Bottom line. We are not... poking around where we don't belong. For one, we have each other's permission but that's based on trust and we can't fuck that up. For two there is now a connection specifically set up between us - the bind - and it's- it's- it's like the house. We will build that space together. But I will not -- Sam. I. Will. Not. Open your doors or knock through your walls or so much as drive a single nail into a wall near your space until you are completely ready to--"

He stops and he looks everywhere but at Sam.

Then he restarts. "You're making a mistake in assuming you're the only one terrified here."

"I don't feel _terrified_ ," Sam jumps in, hard-edged.

"You don't _want_ to feel terrified. But your instincts know better by now. Your mind has changed to protect itself. And _I am_ terrified because you have to be careful with yourself and when you're puppy-dog enthusiastic, you don't want to be careful with yourself and that leaves you either over-eager to get there or open and unprotected or... both. Or something. And the fact of the matter is that my brain. Sam." He turns and twists his own wrist and stares straight at him. "My brain? Is absolutely radioactive. Remember how the-"

"It's. Not." Sam bites out.

"It is. I may not be an angel but, goddamnit, Sam they used my mind as a fucking landfill. You know why the book said that Dean and Cas couldn't do the bind. Cas has no control over the zillions of years of knowledge that he's made up of. I have, like, the minimum of control, just enough to keep my thoughts private because I was built human instead-"

"So you've been keeping yourself from me??"

"No. No. No I have not. I have just been working on... like... structuring myself a little better so there's less of a chance of doors falling open and letting whatever's in there out to come claw at the back of your eyeballs. Sam. I have to be so fucking careful with you," he's wide-eyed and insistent. "You've been through enough punishment. You've been through _enough_. You can't force your way to me before you're ready. You can't force your way to me before I know that I won't let something out that will-."

He doesn't finish.  
He puts a hand over his mouth.

He breathes.

"Sam," he drops his hand. "Sam, I know you. I know Dean. I know more people than I ever wanted to know, inside and out. Sam. I know Ruby. I know... I know Azazel. I know." He shakes his head. "I know Alastair. I know Lilith," he looks sickened by the thought. "I know Lucifer," he finally says. "If you were ever not ready for that and it fell out of nowhere and right into my lap and it was so strong that it surged at you like you surge at me sometimes?" He shakes his head.

Sam clears his throat. "The implication being that," he susses aloud, "you might just relive what he did to me and, if we shared headspace that would just. Repeat. Just happen to me all over again. I'd get a complete blow-by-blow review of it. Every moment of it."

"Every moment of it that I saw," Chuck says. "So don't-- so you can't look at me and figure, _I'll just shove this at Chuck as much as I can, I'll just power through until I'm strong enough to-_ "

"I can't _not_ work on it-" he objects.

"You're not being lazy!!" Chuck's voice pitches high. "You're doing your work as much as you can and you're not being lazy. I'm the one who's being cautious and guess what? I'm not supposed to be doing the careful groundwork on my own!! You're supposed to be helping me! You're supposed to be careful with me!"

Right.  
Okay.

Maybe there's stuff in his own head he's supposed to be protecting Chuck from, too. He didn't think about that. He was just impatient to have _all of this_.

Goddamnit.

"I really hate that this makes sense."

Chuck sighs. "I have a lot of space to- I mean. Like, when you like someone? And you want to invite them back to your place? You gotta make sure that the house is clean _before_ you go on a date, right? Before sex is even a possibility. So they don't feel like they'll catch something just sitting on your furniture. I have to clean up my house first, Sam. It's hasn't even been two full months. It hasn't been two months. Please give us time. I'm fucking begging you. I want to see more of you, too. I'm wild about being all tangled up with you because you only ever take _all of me_ in your hands and give me the world. You give me wonderful things. If you think I'm not impatient for that, too, then you're mistaken. But. Let's clean up our houses, first. Okay?" He deliberately pulls Sam's hand from his towel and clutches it.

This makes sense. He needs to back off. He needs to cool down.

He's always been a hot-head.  
He needs the a/c to be working if he expects Chuck to come over to his place.

God. That really makes sense. This all makes sense and. "I'm okay. Alright. I get it. I'm okay." He really is.

"I'm sorry if I'm not explaining this right. You shouldn't have to think about trying to flex your powers to push your way over. I think we thought this was gonna be-"

"Yeah. We thought we were gonna get thrown together in a mental blender."

"I think either extreme isn't that great. But if we have to work for it, we'll feel better about it when we get there. Alright? So just. Keep feeling what you're feeling and when I can feel that, I'll start to tell you. Like, _I got that one, thanks, Sam_."

"Okay. And when I get things from you I'll just continue to... completely lose my shit. Because I'm clearly very excitable."

Chuck snorts. "I want you to be excited, I do. But I never want you to feel like something was pushed on you."

God. Dammnit. He feels warm and fuzzy again. This is... he's become so fucking ridiculous.

Chuck gives him a soppy face. Touches his neck and slides to his chest. "Stop being so pretty. You're gorgeous when you blush."

Sam blushes harder. "You said you would cut that shit out."

"I did fucking not," and Sam lets him pull his towel away.

«»

Chuck made it until after dinner the second day. Didn't even make it until lunch on the third.  
Sam has noticed.

They just got out of bed at 9 in the morning, so the fact that he's climbing back in at 11:30 is a definite red flag.

Sam sits down on the side of the mattress and pushes a hand into Chuck's hair. "I believed you last night when you said you were okay. I don't believe you now. You've been feeling weird since Monday."

Chuck breathes through it for a moment before he opens his eyes. "Stomach," is all he says.

"What's it been like?"

"Gross. And it hurts. I just want it to stop."

"Pepto?"

"Ugh. As much as it says you're supposed to."

"Okay," Sam feels his forehead. "Does it feel like the flu?"

"No. Like. More rapid."

"Does it feel like food poisoning?"

"I don't know, I've never had that."

Sam considers. "Does it feel like the time Dean wished for a sandwich and it bit him back?"

Chuck whines. "Kinda. I don't know."

"Okay, Sweetheart. You're okay," he watches Chuck curl up tighter. Pets his side. "I've got a pill you can take. Then I'm gonna check the expiration dates in the fridge and whatever else I can think of. Have you been eating something you know you weren't supposed to?"

"What the hell does that mean?" he groans. "I'm not a _dog_. If I knew I wasn't supposed to eat something I wouldn't be eating it. It's not like I started munching on napkins or cables or something."

Sam rolls his eyes. "I mean like stuff you _like_ , but you know it irritates you. Like you know better but it's just so good-"

"No. No no fuck no. Nothing is worth this. I mean. I felt this way with red wine. Only, you know, more painful. And like. NOTHING is worth drinking red wine. You couldn't pay me. You couldn't _force_ me. Lookit who you're talking to. I'll do anything before I intentionally put myself in pain."

Sam tries not to mention that it's nice to know there's a type of alcohol he wouldn't look at twice. "Are you drinking enough water?"

"Probably not." He clamps closed his eyes again.

There hasn't been much out of the ordinary in their kitchen lately. They got salads at a restaurant like six days ago. It falls well enough outside of the timeframe that Sam can pretty well discount it as far as raw food from an unfamiliar kitchen. He pulls the sheets around him properly and gets up to find a pill and investigate.

He doesn't find an answer, really. The only thing Chuck's been eating different has been pistachios and he has no idea why he'd be reacting badly to them.

But. Just in case. He tosses some stuff, gets rid of anything within a day or two of expiration, and hides the pistachios so Chuck can't find them. (He basically just has to put them on top of a cabinet.)

He looks for bugs in the pantry and then checks the couch and the car, their laundry, and all the pockets in all their luggage for hex bags.

Then he gets a little frustrated with himself. What the fuck kind of husband is he supposed to be that he can't find out why his significant other has a stomach ache?

He goes into the bedroom to wrap around Chuck and think. Chuck tolerates having his belly rubbed. He probably doesn't especially like it but he doesn't object and it makes Sam feel like he's doing something. Then he realizes that he just has to drastically change Chuck's diet for a few days to flush it out of his system and then reintroduce stuff.

Results will not come automatically. Chuck won't feel better just because he tossed the sad-looking potatoes in the bottom drawer.

Chuck whines again, wordless and disgruntled. Then gets up to hide in the bathroom all miserably for a while.

Sam pulls the sheets and puts fresh ones on the bed - pillowcases and everything. Then he fills a couple glasses of water to keep nearby.

Chuck slumps out of the bathroom and back to bed. "I'm gross, can you please go away?"

"You don't know gross. You haven't really had to share space with Dean, day in and day out. Not in tiny, little rooms, not in real time."

"I'm just bitching about everything," Chuck tries. "You should move on with your life. Go do stuff."

He shrugs that off and pulls Chuck back into bed. "You're my favorite stuff. What am I gonna do without you?"

"Plenty," Chuck grouches, but he lets himself be tucked in again and held. "Oh, gosh. Are these new sheets. Oh, man. I never change the damn sheets. These smell good."

Sam snorts. "We can do that. We can pretend to be proper adults and change the sheets sometimes. It will be amazing."

«»

He's on the phone discussing possible solutions with Cas and it turns into him explaining Dean's _germ thing_ to him and it's kind of amusing because his brother's tolerance for "gross" stuff is so selective that Cas is actually thinking about charting it out--

"Woah," Chuck says aloud.

Sam glances back and he's in the same place he's been for a while, since he finally got out of bed, writing at the kitchen table. But he's hands off the keyboard and shocked still and mouth hanging open all at once.

"Hey- Cas, I'm gonna call you back." He hangs up and goes over, pushes his chair close to Chuck's. "What happened?" he sits, shakes his hair back.

"Read this with me," Chuck scrolls to the top of an email.

" _Betty Sterling at Gmail_. Wait. Your Betty? Your sister Betty?"

He nods.

" _Chuck_ ," Sam reads off the screen. " _We were kind of confused by a story on the news a while back when somebody with your name was arrested for murder and then died in custody_ ," Sam cringes.

" _But the guy's name was **Shirley** and not **Shurley** so we figured there must have been some kind of mixup with their information_ ," Chuck reads, tosses a hand up. "Fucking somebody probably dug my picture up on Google and then misspelled my name. It would be pretty much the usual for my life."

" _Can you let me know when you get this email?_ " Sam reads. " _We'd like to know that you're okay_ -"

"'We,'" Chuck sighs. "She's talking to all of them again."

"Is. Um. Is that good or bad?"

"Probably bad," Chuck slumps to lean on his hand.

Sam licks his lips and keeps reading aloud: " _Last time you said you had moved near Denver. I wondered if you were still there. I will be in the area in a month and I could buy you lunch if you have time. I still have that book to give you and everyone's wondering how you've been getting by._ "

"Ugh." Chuck rubs his face. Sam's beginning to understand that Betty on her own is not as big a deal as Betty in connection to the rest of the family, when she is somehow a total downer.

He reads the last lines. " _Let me know when you have time. Betty._ So why is. I mean. We could. Okay. One thing at a time," he rolls his eyes at himself, puts his questions in order of priority. "First off. Thanks. You said you'd tell me and you told me. So, thank you," he puts his hand to Chuck's back. "Is this somethin' you wanna do? Will you go see her? I can get you to Denver, no problem."

"I donno," he sighs again. "Yeah, maybe."

"Then, um. Can I come with, or?"

"Of course," Chuck shrugs like that's a no-brainer.

But it wasn't a foregone conclusion to Sam. Last time he brought it up, Chuck was hesitant and. Well. Maybe he's about to find out why. "Thank you," he repeats. "So. Okay. It's a bad thing? That she's talking to all your family again?"

"Possibly."

"Why?"

"They, um. Alright. Um. It's this attitude they've got. They don't understand queer _anything_. It's all a weird joke to them. Like, some of them may know gay people but. It's not anything to do with their lives. That's something that happens to other people - people without families. And, like, Betty wasn't so bad about it when she wasn't getting along with mom. But if they're on good terms right now, then it might change depending if mom's been in a 'family-legacy' mood. Betty is like a social chameleon in the worst sense. I mean. She's nice and all? But she tends to empathize with one person at a time and that person is usually just the one who whines loudest and claims they need the most sympathy. She's a champion of the downtrodden as long as the downtrodden can keep her attention. When it's just her and her husband and whatever? She's fine. She has her own personality and everything. Otherwise? She's a yes-man. And she gets... again. Those ideas about harmony and whatever. About reunions and everyone living in the same town and always visiting each other and staying connected and." Chuck shakes his head.

Okay. Now, he hopes this isn't what he thinks it is: "And your mom? When she gets into 'family-legacy' mode?"

"It's not just, 'ha-ha gays that's so funny,' like they normally say. It's more like, 'how dare you deprive the world of children and go against the will of society' and _occasionally_ it will get religious and yadda yadda. Like if she needs to dip into the bible for backup. Gets worse the more drunk she is and the more she talks about how hard her life is and how she 'worked so hard to raise us right' and whatever."

Sam absorbs this. Tries not to show the mild panic and hate that's creeping in. He wants to give this a chance. "Did they ever-" he starts too quietly. Clears his throat and tries again, but not much better, "They never? Not to you. I mean. They wouldn't-" he steals Chuck's hand off the table to link their fingers maybe too tight.

"No, they-" he shakes his head, "Nobody really. I mean my brother suspected and he talked some shit. Made some cracks about me that made me wonder how much he'd seen. But nobody really knew I wasn't straight. I never got hit for it or anything." He clears his throat. "Uh. Not by _them_."

Sam breathes harsh. In long. Out long. That's real far in the past and there's nothing he can do about it. He thumbs at Chuck's wedding ring and tries not to ask the question that's burning up his throat.

"Stop being sad," Chuck whispers, tugs on their hands. "It's fine."

Sam breathes again and decides, "You don't have to take me. I know what I said. But you don't have to, hermit crab." Sam looks down and pets his hand.

"Hey," he tugs again so Sam looks at him. "If she actually is in a place where she gives a shit about my wellbeing, maybe she'd be happy to know I got somebody to look out for me. I wouldn't go without you, anyhow. You said you wanted to know. So. I want you to, if you're still interested. You've been waiting - I know we talked about it a long time ago. I'm fine with whatever happens. It's probably nothing to worry about. Betty's pretty cool for still caring, right? After I basically just skipped out on the whole fam?"

"I'm starting to think you had more reasons for that than you've told me," Sam gives a half-smile and kisses Chuck's writing hand.

"Not really. Honestly. That just wasn't the family I belonged in," he tugs on Sam again for emphasis.

Sam's heart kinda melts. He tugs Chuck to his lap and holds him close.

"Hey, maybe Betty's contacting me because she's done sympathizing with mom for a while and she's gonna try to _rescue me_ from my downtrodden existence again," he laughs lightly. "She does that sometimes. Or maybe she'll just buy us a lunch. We'll see. It'll be fine." Chuck reaches up to comb his fingers through Sam's hair and Sam kisses his shoulder when that turns into ear touches and thumbs pressing at his jaw.

Chuck doesn't have to do this for him. If it's possible to have that connection, to draw more people in or for Chuck to have some sort of backup support system, that's important. Chuck can have some people to hide with if things go sideways. Or he can at least get one of his sisters back.

He's gonna tell Dean. Dean will be proud of Chuck for trying. Dean will want to know how it goes. Charlie will be excited.

Maybe they're so worried about Chuck that they'll just be happy he finally reported in. Maybe they'll wanna open back up to him.

They can. You know. Maybe have a Christmas or a New Years there. And Sam can see this whole crowd of people he's heard about. Connect their oddball family stories with their faces. Look for the pale color of Chuck's eyes in his relatives. See if his brother resembles him.

Like. He'd try not to be excited but. They're married, so _technically_ , he's got FOUR sisters and a brother he's never met. Even if his mom's a little too traditional or something, well. Sam knows the bible front and back. He could argue her to reason in fucking Latin if she got "religious" and he had to.

He reaches around Chuck to pull the laptop towards them. "If you're really willing to go, can we write her back?"

Chuck smiles and pulls him in to kiss. "Yeah. We can spend a day in Denver."

Okay. Sam pulls up a new email and opens the calendar app in another tab and Gmaps in another. He can probably find out, himself, which convention hall it is based on what Chuck's told him.

But Chuck scoots and pulls Sam's hands away to compose the email before Sam can research. He asks her when she'll be in and when she thinks they can meet. Where she'll be staying and how much time she may have for a drink or a meal. Then he's quiet for a while. Reading and re-reading.

"Wanna make a joke about not being dead? Just in case?"

"I know Charlie said she made my accounts all kosher, but maybe I don't wanna draw attention to that, anyway. I'll just plead ignorance and we'll laugh about it when she tells me the whole story."

"Okay," he rubs a hand over Chuck's side and presses his mouth to his head. "Sign it off."

Chuck writes, **Let me know - Chuck.**

Reads it all again.

"I'm gonna hit send," Sam declares.

Chuck hates hitting send. He breathes deep. Nods.

Sam hits send. And they wait.

«»

By the evening, their meeting with Betty is all set up. She scheduled Chuck in for coffee on Tuesday, a little less than a month from now, and will extend it to a full lunch if she has time. He'll meet her across the street from the hotel where the convention is being held. And Sam will come with.

After dinner, Sam calls Cas back to finish up their conversation, but Dean answers, griping about how it's all Sam's fault that Cas is doing some sort of fucking experiment on him.

Chuck's show is coming on, he's curled on the couch dealing with his stomach, still, and trying to find a comfortable way to rest, so Sam scoots off to the bedroom. "Hey, so get this: we got an email today from one of Chuck's sisters."

"Oh. Holy shit. Did they not buy that he's dead or something?"

"I guess they attributed it to mistaken identity. Hopefully none of them are savvy enough to go looking, but maybe Charlie should check them out."

Dean's quiet for a moment. "I know she wiped all the records she could find from the internet. A lot of those articles are supposed to pop up as malware if you click on them. Are you asking me to ask Charlie to check out your in-laws to make sure it's safe for him to keep associating with them?"

"Uh. Maybe-kinda?"

Dean considers this. "What did she want?" he asks.

"Um. Well, we're gonna meet her when she's in town-- well. When she gets to Denver for a convention. Dean, this is important," he goes on before his brother can come up with any protests. "Chuck's family is huge. If he could have some sort of, you know, safe house in case something goes wrong? That's a big deal. He could reconnect with his family again and-"

"Why was he not in touch with them in the first place, though?" Dean definitely smells something funny about this.

He's sort of right to, Sam supposes. "I mean. Dean, you know how quiet he is. How he is around too many people. At any given point, when he was growing up, there were eight to ten people in the house at all times."

"Yeah, but this is only like the second time I've heard about his sister - the only good one. I mean, is this the same one?"

"Betty, yeah."

Dean's too-quiet for another long moment. "How does the rest of the family feel about him not being straight?"

Sam takes too long organizing his thoughts.

"You're gonna show up with him, aren't you? Is this gonna make one of them-- Sam. Look. It would be cool if this worked out. But. Dude? Why hasn't he spoken to them in years in the first place? Is this a bible-thumping thing?"

Sam sighs. "Almost. Maybe," he admits. "But. Chuck's pretty sure it won't matter to Betty. I just. Dean. It would be fucking really. I just. It would be cool, right? To know her? At least one of them? Another _person_ , you know?"

"Yeah. Yeah, Sammy, I know. But first comes first: we gotta make sure none of these people are actually gonna rat him out to the feds -- or that they're not _working with_ the feds to find him out. And then. I mean. Are you sure he-"

Sam sighs again. Then spills the whole deal to Dean. Including how Chuck's mom decided he was an empty shell.

Dean surprises him by getting weirdly defensive.

"You know what? Fine, fuck it, then. I dare them to look at you at your full height and talk shit. They'd be lucky to have you if they were smart. And if Betty can't handle it, get Chuck the hell out of there. He doesn't need to be given the third degree by anybody."

"Uh. Wow, Dean. I mean. Of course. Kind of thrilled to hear you say that."

Dean snorts. "You're not the only one who inherited family, Sam," he reminds him.

After they hang up, Sam heads back out and crowds onto the couch with Chuck.

Admittedly, he gets annoying.

Chuck is narrow-eyed and amused by the time there's a commercial and he can mute it and look down to where Sam has wedged against him, all tangled.

He keeps petting Chuck's face.

"What's going on here?"

"Make out with me."

"For three minutes?" he puts his hand on top of Sam's mouth and he keeps it and kisses his fingers and into his palm.

"I'll download this for you in the morning," he says between fingers.

"Yeah, but not before Charlie has texted me forty fucking spoilers."

"We'll turn your phone off," he presses Chuck's hand to his mouth some more. Reaches back up to draw him down by the back of his head.

Before he can kiss him, though, a question bursts out of his chest. "Are you happy here? With me?"

Chuck looks amused again. Then he looks off, considering. "Do you care?" he eventually asks.

Sam almost laughs but it dies in his throat. "What kind of question is _that?_ "

"Would you care if I was alone? Like when I lived by myself?"

"Yes."

"Would you care if I was sad? Like sad and in pain and leaving to go get a bottle of booze right now."

"Of fucking course. I'd stop you; I'd help you."

"Do you care if I'm scared or tired or unhappy?"

"I just asked you if you were-"

"So yeah," he shrugs. "You asking the question is the answer. You care enough to ask if I'm happy. That makes me happy, Sam." Chuck bends down all the way to kiss him. "You make me happy, Sam."

"'M crazy about you," Sam says into his mouth.

"Yeah. Love you, too," he turns off the tv.

«»

"Sam," he pops his head into the next room. "I'm short."

Sam tosses his pencil in his book to save his place and gets up to follow.

"What's up?"

"I can't even tell, it's so high up, but it looks like a spider," he points, "kill it."

Sam frowns and pushes aside the shower curtain. "We don't have to kill it."

"Listen you goddamn hippie, if that thing drops down in front of me while I'm sitting on the fucking toilet, I will be jumpy for weeks. Please consider my sanity."

Sam turns to grab a stray glass, dumps the water in the sink. Then he reaches up to try to catch it.

Chuck watches for a good three minutes. Leaves. Comes back again.

As soon as Sam has chased it low enough on the wall, Chuck lashes out with a folded magazine, smashing the poor thing.

"Thank you."

"I was gonna take it outside!"

"You saved a planet. You saved every bug on this planet. That one had its chance. It could have turned away. Tragically, it stumbled into the path of a ruthless killer. And I crossed that motherfucker off my list," he shakes the paper off over the sink and washes the corpse down the drain.

"You heartless bastard," Sam pouts. "You used me to chase that spider right into your clutches."

"Uh. Yeah. You wanted to dance with it for a half hour. I don't have time for that," he pushes Sam out of the room. "I wanted to deal with it before I sat down on the toilet. Obviously."

«»

Chuck is the one who starts the wash, Sam is the one who remembers to throw it in the dryer.

Sam is a pro at ironing. Even using the shitty ones in motels. He's got this whole amazing technique, it's honestly hard to be humble about. He's a fucking professional by now. So, since he tangles up all their clothes all the time, he just irons all their suit stuff while Chuck sorts and folds the rest.

Neither of them like stacking the dishwasher but Sam stalls at it the most. So, normally, Chuck stacks it and Sam puts the clean dishes away.

Sam takes care of the truck... or waits for Dean to come around to handle any issues. Chuck and him can both do it. And they both generally don't want to.

Sam does other repairs. All kinds of repairs, whenever. They're supposed to call the building super, but he doesn't understand why. He gets impatient and wants things fixed NOW.

Chuck can sew. Well, they both can, but he has the patience to fix clothes and bags and stuff. (Faces, arms, _ears_.)

He doesn't like doing bullet prep. He will clean the knives and maybe the guns, if necessary, but most weapon maintenance is done by Sam.

Sam speaks Latin better. Chuck remembers the exorcisms just fine and his pronunciation is fair, but he would have to really think to conjugate and make sentences and whatever. Chuck remembers how to read and speak Latin through the memories of others so it takes some piecing together.

Sam asks Dean how to cook more things and then studies, finds easy recipes on the internet. He makes himself responsible for feeding Chuck. He tries to recognize the phases of Chuck's life even though, at this point, he suspects there's no actual pattern to them. He can recognize when he has a headache coming on. He knows roughly when he'll be hungry and when he'll need coffee. But Sam works hard at trying to find a pattern for when he'll start to get tired or bored. He is still trying to pinpoint the recurring stomach issue, as well, since Chuck finally fessed up that he was hurting and it's not stopping. Sam suspects that it was going on longer than he noticed, too, or was ramping up to what it is now. It's bugging the hell out of him. He's tried almost everything he can think of.

Otherwise, he's pretty much trained everybody in their family to make sure Chuck eats. The others still swing by with food when they're on cases. But he's been dreading calls from Charlie lately because he doesn't know what he's gonna do if he can't fix what's wrong with the stomach situation. It will only be more complicated out on the road.

Sam doesn't like the way Chuck treats himself and Chuck doesn't like the way Sam speaks of himself. So Chuck speaks of Sam in glowing superlatives and Sam tends to Chuck hand and foot. There are entire days when Chuck doesn't have to make decisions himself. He can just write and write and let it flow and Sam moves the world forward around them.

Sometimes when Sam feels unsteady and ungrounded, he gathers Chuck on his lap and makes him write from there.

Sometimes when he's out on a case with other members of the family, they'll drop Sam back off at the room because he's too homesick without Chuck. He tries not to say anything but he suspects they like him more when he's a little less pathetic and Chuck makes him a little less pathetic. Occasionally they end up having to make Sam and Chuck head up the surveillance team. They don't fuck around when they're on the case like that. In fact, Sam is noticeably sharper, according to Cas. He attributes it to Sam's incentive being protection of his significant other.

When other people say "significant other," it _bothers_ Sam. He knows that's completely unreasonable, but it _feels wrong_. He'll corner Chuck in another room and demand to hear him say it so he can erase the other out of his head. Chuck obliges and then some. He likes that words have become more important to Sam. Sam kinda likes that, too.

When a room is very full and a lot of people are around, Sam has to take steps to make sure Chuck is okay with that. He doesn't want to risk sensory overload. When everyone's distracted, he will press Chuck around the corner and let him disappear. If Chuck needs Sam to stay with him, he'll tug him with and attack his mouth and get himself pressed against the wall.

Claire is the only one who goes looking for them. She is used to seeing Chuck pressed tiny and tight to Sam and barely rolls her eyes anymore.

Dean is allowed to look out for Chuck.  
So is Claire.  
Sam can't really explain why, but he's not okay with it just being Cas or Charlie looking after Chuck.

Maybe.  
Well.  
Maybe it's because they have too much faith that Chuck can take care of himself.

Sam isn't crazy about the idea of Chuck _having to_ look out for himself. Sam doesn't want him to be alone anymore if he doesn't have to be. And Chuck shouldn't have to battle anybody. That's not what he signed up for. It's hard, but Sam is really trying to keep him away from the majority of the actual hunting.

He knows that Claire will take exactly as much caution as she takes with herself. And she's mostly being trained by Dean and Cas. And Dean might not act like it, but he would protect Sam's husband almost as much as he'd protect Sam. Sam can trust Dean with anything.

So far, Claire has only had to call Sam in once because Chuck disappeared into a memory from a hellhound victim. It was a while back, during the engagement. She didn't touch Chuck, just sort of herded him into the car and back to the motel and had him sit in front of the tv to watch MythBusters for two hours. He shuddered and shocked, hearing howls that weren't there and convincing himself aloud that he didn't make a deal, he was just hearing shit.

Claire was terrified but acted like she wasn't.

Dean took her aside and explained demon deals, after. Explained all about hellhounds.

Another day Claire left their motel room laughing. Sam couldn't figure out why. Nothing was funny about them having to clean so much fucking blood off themselves.

But he got a text ten minutes later. A picture message.

Him sitting on a motel bed full of guns and knives, Chuck cleaning blood off Sam's face from between his knees. Both of them smiling... like dorks.

The glitter text at the bottom of the pic read **~Just Domestic Things!!~**

«»

Sam has a dream about their honeymoon. A dream about Chuck on wide, soft, ultra-white sheets. A dream from above, watching himself climb up into Chuck's waiting hands. Climb up to kiss him and, for some reason, the walls have been removed and there's just four trees holding up the ceiling. The day is bright and long and birds sing and there's so much sunlight.

Chuck looks amazing in the sunlight.

Chuck grabs him, arms around his shoulders, and moves him to where he can best hold on to him and when he kisses Sam, he feels each kiss inside his skull. Chuck says something like how he wishes he could kiss Sam's bones and organs and Sam offers them.

Sam has a dream where he feels safe and then Chuck turns him over and makes him sit at the very end of the bed to have sex. He doesn't know why. From above he sees the back of Chuck's head between his legs, Chuck going down on him and it's gorgeous. He feels bigger in this dream or Chuck feels smaller. His hands wrap around more of him when he pulls him up and rolls over him and keeps losing his balance off the end of the bed as he teases and reciprocates. It feels comical but good and he has never-ever had a dream like this before.

His alarm stops it suddenly. Just as he decides to decorate Chuck's tummy.

Chuck snoozes on, next to him.

What the hell? He never has dreams that good.

And Chuck's still dreaming on the other side of the bind.

Paper. Sam can feel the paper waving by, whipped away on the wind. No bright lights like the first time he felt him have a nightmare. No other significant feeling or image.

So Sam somehow conjured a good dream all on his own.

Goddamn. Score.

Speaking of scoring.

He had Chuck all cuddled close with the sheets fallen away, Sam keeping the both of them warm.

Sam turns off his follow-up alarm and drops the phone back to the nightstand.

He runs the back of his hand up and down Chuck's arm, over and over. Touches his neck and keeps his hand there when it doesn't wake him up. Kisses his forehead, his shoulder, his shoulder shoulder shoulder.

_Aw, come on_.

Yeah. He's gonna wake him up.

He says "hey hey" against his hair and he can't feel the paper flying anymore.

"Hey. Sweetheart, can I kiss you?"

Not awake yet. Sam pulls him closer. Pulls Chuck's leg over his own.

"Heeey. Chuck Chuck Chuck. Hermit crab."

Chuck blinks and whines a little. "What are-" he doesn't finish, just sighs.

"Hi. Are you awake?"

"Yeah. Geeze. Did you wake me up for this?" he shifts his hips against Sam where he's hard. He doesn't sound annoyed, he sounds curious.

"Can I touch you?"

Chuck sniffs and clears his throat and leans up on his elbow a little. Probably looking over his shoulder at the clock.

"I had this amazing dream about you," he starts, running his hands over Chuck's chest and down to this center.

"Lucky you," Chuck comments and drops back and yawns. Stretches out over the mattress.

Sam gets up to climb above him and Chuck offers his hands, like in the dream. Sam comes to them but kisses his palms and closes his eyes, pressing into them.

Chuck laughs. "Oh, Sammy. Hi. You wanna show me?"

"I don't know. I wanna do something." He grabs Chuck's wrist and kisses each of his fingers. Turns to the other hand and does the same. Chuck sits back, sleepy and lazy and pleased.

"Good morning," Sam whispers before kissing him. "Sweetheart."

"Good morning. What was the dream like?"

"I donno. You wanted to balance us on the end of the bed while we fooled around. It was kind of ridiculous. We were falling all over the place."

Chuck huffs a laugh. "Sounds fun."

Sam smiles. "It really was." He presses down to kiss his arms. Drag his shirt off.

God. His smile drops away.  
Chuck's getting skinnier. Sam spans a hand on his center.

His stomach keeps making weird noises and Sam keeps giving him pills to make him feel better and--

Sam sits bolt upright.

"Sam?" Chuck puts a hand over his.

"Oh no." Sam closes his eyes, feels his skin heat and his heart speed up. "Oh crap. I'm an idiot."

"You trying to start a fight or something? Because-"

"No, I'm really a fucking idiot," he drops a kiss on Chuck's belly and gets up and tugs on a pair of jeans and goes out into the main room, crosses to the kitchen. He pulls over the box they keep the vitamins in and starts turning them. Clicks on the stove light so he can read better.

When he finds it he curses. Fucking whips the bottle at the far wall so hard it cracks open and pills ricochet everywhere.

He screams one, wordless battle cry and repeats. "I am a _**fucking idiot**_."

Goddamn plant-based vegan fucking hippie vitamins without goddamn preservatives so they spoil and they're made of... whatever, goat milk and natural fungi and harvested in the fucking mountains by barefooted bastards with gross hair and-

Chuck approaches slowly but he takes one of Sam's hands in both of his and pulls his fingers to uncurl. Pets his hand open and strokes it, soft and repeated. "Please take a deep breath?" he asks.

The bind. Chuck is rushing some kind of soothing softness at it and Sam doesn't want any of that shit. He's the one who started giving Chuck vitamins in the first place and he didn't even check to see that one of the new ones he started him on was expired a whole half-year by the time he bought it. He just thought it would be _oh, good_ and _oh, natural_ and Dean is right he's HIPPIE TRASH.

"Sam," Chuck repeats. "Sammy. _Please?_ "

Sam dips to kiss him because he asked.

"Okay," Chuck says. "Will you take a breath, now?"

Sam forces it. Tries to. And takes a breath. And another one, deeper. And another one.

He calms down, eventually.

"My stupid vitamins made you sick," he tosses his other hand at the wall and the mess. "You've been in pain for _weeks_ because of me and my hippy-dippy horseshit."

"Sam. Stop. It's okay."

"REALLY NOT! REALLY-REALLY NOT!!"

"Okay!! Fine!! But you fixed it! I'll be okay! _Please_ ," he stresses again.

Sam takes his hand back to dig both into his hair and _yank_ but then he wraps them both around Chuck's face and comes down to kiss him.

"I'm so fucking stupid."

"You're really not stupid."

"I'll stop poisoning you. We'll go buy all new vitamins today and you'll start on them tomorrow. You'll feel better. I'm so fucking sure it was that. I fucking swear. I promise you'll feel better."

"Can we get ones that don't taste like ass?"

"We can get ones that don't taste like ass. We'll get nice, conventional ones from a fucking supermarket and then I'll do my homework better and get you the best ones around and I'll _check the fucking expiration dates_."

"Okay!" Chuck repeats, nervous-looking with Sam's huge paws still wrapped around his face.

Sam moves in and wraps him tight and hugs his head. "I'm sorry. It was me. I figured it out, it was me."

"It wasn't _you_. It was whoever didn't throw some old-ass, back-of-the-shelf product away before an unsuspecting giant could buy it," Chuck sighs against him. "This is great news, by the way. I'm so fucking hungry. I'm so fucking worn out. I'm so tired of sitting in the goddamn bathroom."

Sam holds him protected in his arms.

He keeps thinking about it for the rest of the fucking day. Just in case, he keeps thinking about what it could be. What his next move will be if Chuck crumples again, goes to hide in bed. He keeps fretting that Chuck won't feel better, but he does. And it holds through the next day. And the rest of the week.

He's so fucking relieved.  
He fixed his husband. It wasn't something serious.

He doesn't even regret the dent in the wall. He'll fix it. Sam only didn't _garbage dispose_ the damn vitamins one-by-one because he didn't want them in the apartment anymore. He did, however, destroy them with prejudice in the parking lot.

And saged the whole fucking apartment after recycling the bottle.

It actually makes him feel better when he tells Dean the story and he just grinds out, "Christ, you fucking granola-snorting, tofu-popping, muesli-mainlining hippie scum."

Sam can _hear_ him rolling his eyes. Hears the lecture about how he should have brought Chuck home to Cas for a check-up before Dean can even really lay into him.

Then Dean lets him know their sort-of-sister completed her routine of felonious privacy invasion and they're free to meet his in-laws even if his husband is, technically, dead and, oh, yeah, they're visiting the kids in Idaho, right now, wrapping up a hunt. Krissy's new birthday shotgun is her _favorite thing ever_. Their sometime-enemy, The King of Hell, sent Dean a meme in a text message which is actually the funniest one he's seen yet and he's going to call up the Sheriff of Sioux Falls to share it and hear her howl with laughter...

Just domestic things.

«»

They arrive in Denver the day before so they have plenty of time.

Betty agreed that it would be best to see Chuck between conference presentations and then, again, for dinner if she had time. Right now, she has a little over an hour free and she emailed to let him know she's headed over to meet at the coffee place across the street from the hotel.

Sam keeps Chuck close and they order for themselves. He doesn't think it's a good idea to have Betty's drink waiting because it will be sitting at a table with a huge man she's never met before.

"Oh, come on," Chuck scoffs.

No. He's serious. So Chuck shakes his head but he sets him up at a table, pets Sam's neck, and then leans down to kiss him... and press a hand to his knee because it's bouncing up and down. He stares at Sam up close.

"I'm just kind of excited," he lies.

"If you're gonna be nervous, I'm gonna end up nervous. I'll get her drink and wait outside for her. I love your long, tall _everything_ , but please don't be accidentally knocking over furniture when I get back. It draws a lot of attention to two dead felons."

Sam stays where he is and tries to control his limbs. (He keeps the lid on his coffee just in case he knees the table.)

Chuck is only outside for a minute before a lady in a dressy black jacket and sensible red dress marches across the street and accepts the cup he holds out. She looks very professional and a big, fat wave of oh-god-what-if-she-doesn't-like-me crashes down on him.

He's wearing his newest shirts and his boots with the least roadwear and the jacket that Chuck says he likes the most. He told him not to so much as wear a dress shirt from his Fed outfits but now he's incredibly sure that she's going to think some white-trash road dog conned her brother into this to ride on his writing talent or something.

Sam's not even a fucking college graduate and she puts thousands of children through after-school programs each year. He doesn't even have the paper Chuck has. He may have qualified for one, but Sam never even got an associate's degree.

She's gonna think he's an idiot.

They didn't decide how much they were gonna lie about. What kind of stories they'd tell. Chuck's just supposed to say he's still writing and Sam is building him a house and "has a business with his family." She's gotta know, at least that he's going to take care of her little brother.

But what if he just looks huge and bumbling to her?

He can't hear them, but he can lean to the side a little and watch them.

Chuck huddles into himself against the wind as they talk.

Goddamnit. He's gotta remember that Chuck is concerned about this, too. He's hoping that Betty doesn't treat their marriage like it's fucked up just because they're both men. But, honestly, it seems like such a basic-ass thing to be worried about that it's been much farther from his mind this week than whether his hair is too long or if he handles Chuck in a way that's too dominate or demanding. Forget this day and age and how only a minority of small-minded people care anymore, Sam just finds it hard to get some perspective on outside points-of-view like that when there are bigger, world-ending issues out there. Like demonic knights and archangel battles and renegade reapers. And, you know, yeah, also maybe the drought and North Korean nukes and racism and, like, human things.

He's gotta believe - for Chuck, to stay positive for Chuck and his relationship with his family - that there's no way somebody could really give a shit when they see how happy they are together. It might not be noticeable at first how it is that they've changed each other, but they have, for the better. 

He leans over, tries to see better. They're out there for a while. His sister does look a little bit like him in the shape of her face, the texture of her hair. She's taller, would be even without the heels. It makes this thing surge in Sam's heart that he has to be real careful with or it will trip across the bind and fluster Chuck.

(He just really fucking loves this little hermit crab.)

Betty makes these breezy motions and shakes her head a lot and sips her coffee a few times and finally they stop talking and let a few people pass on the sidewalk between them.

Chuck thumbs at the door. She just shrugs. Nods. So Chuck opens the door for her.

She looks around the inside of the coffee shop and Sam swallows, deliberately moves his coffee to the center of the table, and checks his surroundings so he doesn't knock one of the nearby chairs over standing up.

You do really have to look to spot the similarities. She's got contacts in and their eyes don't look very much alike, not even in shape. She's soft but fit. Her purse is heavy and she smells like cinnamon breath mints.

He can't really assess the way she's looking at him. He's putting his 'normal nice guy' smile on and trying to look open, unimposing.

Chuck looked hesitant before and the bind isn't giving him much. He can't tell if he's trying to keep Sam calm but that would really, naturally have the opposite effect.

Betty shifts her drink to her other hand. So Sam grins and extends his own and offers his name and pulls out her chair and wow. She's _beautiful_ and she's _no-nonsense_ , so he's expecting her to be as direct as Chuck is and he _loves it_.

He draws Chuck beside him by the hand and they sit across from her and he's about to set in on it, like, _I've heard nothing but good things_ and _Thanks for meeting_ and _Hope you don't think this is weird, me coming with_ and _Just really wanted to know some of Chuck's family_. But. Instead. After the bare minimum of courtesies.

She smirks, sips her drink. "So you have a different last name, now, right?" she asks Chuck. "I mean, you're the girl, and he plays the guy?" she points.

Chuck subtly shrinks into Sam's side.  
Like he's defeated.

What the actual fuck.

"Um." Sam can only smile, shake his head. "We. I mean." _Who the fuck says that??_ "Chuck goes by whichever name he wants. We. We kinda share."

She goes wide-eyed and slides her gaze to Chuck.

"Writing under a new name, then? Abandon that high school football trash you were shoveling? Oh. Wait. Do you have a fashion column now?" she scoffs and smirks behind the lid of her coffee.

... ... ... Short of asking if she's all of seven years old, Sam can do nothing polite except. Sit there. And probably look just absolutely confused.

Chuck clears his throat. "So. How is mom, anyway?"

"Oh. You care all of a sudden?"

Chuck sighs. "I'm asking."

"Great. Great. She's gonna have more grandbabies to play with. Tricia's in a good place right now. You know, a grown-up, stable place with a steady job and a husband who can give her children."

Fucking okay.  
Okay this is unbelievable.

They're quiet for a minute. Betty sips her decaf and, after a while, shakes her head. "This is a farce. It's like a really sad attempt to prove that all your problems have always just been because you're gay. We just really hoped that you would straighten up and make something out of yourself. Guess there's no chance of either, huh?" she blinks, shakes her head a little, condescending and pitying.

Holy shit.  
Sam is getting fucking _livid_.

Then. It's just four more minutes of her cracking jokes or whatever and bragging about how well everyone else is doing, implying that Chuck's the only one on his hands and knees, begging and scraping to get by, and Sam just feeling... increasingly confused behind his white-out buzz of anger.

Chuck does nothing. It's not his job to get her to chill or anything. But he wriggles his fingers in Sam's hold after a while and he realizes that his responses are getting short and hostile and he needs to _breathe_ and let Chuck pet his hand open.

She calls it quits, thanks Chuck for the coffee and ignores Sam from then on out. Shoulders her bag and rises. Claims she has to get back.

"So, mom will be thrilled, yeah. I'll let everyone know your happy news," she says, a complete sarcastic ass.

Chuck closes his eyes briefly and clenches his jaw.  
Then opens his eyes and breathes through her last few jabs.

She has a few other implications to make about the impending shitstorm in Chuck's family, throwing out more names than Sam can recognize, and she goes, dropping half her coffee in the wastebasket on her way out and gusting from the shop, hair whipping in the wind.

He feels like he was just subjected to performance art by someone who's really just completely full of themselves. "Chuck." Sam starts. "What the f-"  
"Can we go back to the car- the truck? Please."

Chuck turns to him. Sam feels something about to burst over on the other side of his head, the direction where Chuck comes from. Something is building. And Chuck won't wanna be in this strange coffee shop any longer.

Say what you will about the evil of chain restaurants. But there's something harder about your life going twisted where you can't make sense of your environment.

Sam shakes his head and clamps his jaw tight. He palms the back of Chuck's head and hugs him, briefly. He's got to be the one with his head screwed on straight, here, because Chuck just got, like, seriously backhanded by someone he used to be able to trust.

He throws back the rest of his own coffee and rises, pulls Chuck up with him, waits for him to grab his drink. He dips his hand around Chuck's side. Doesn't let go of him for anything as they walk. He unlocks Chuck's door with his other hand and gets him seated up there, makes sure he's in before closing the door and rounding to the other side.

He doesn't start the car, though.

He's trying to figure this out.

"You got married. It was a joke to her," he breathes, trying to bite back some of the anger.

"It would've been a joke to mom, so it's a joke to her right now," Chuck explains. "She won't be that way in. Well, whenever. She changes her mind on that stuff, I told you. She takes flightiness to, like," he puts his hand to the roof to measure. "A _level_."

"But I'm," Sam pauses. "Fucking _really angry_."

That's not half of what he is. He's completely enraged but it's a little more important to make sure that Chuck is okay because the only part of his fami- the only one of the Shurleys who still speaks to him just made fun of him for being in a relationship, for getting married. As good as told them she can't wait to get back to their hometown and let everybody know that Chuck's done something ridiculous.

"Can we." Chuck considers for a moment. "Can we go get our stuff from the motel and sleep at the bunker tonight?"

"Sure, yeah, definitely." Okay, he can do that. It's weird of Chuck to ask for that, but it's a good idea for him to be around family who won't treat him like an amusing little brat. _Real family_. People who are well aware of his true value. Sam packs his anger away nice and tight. He starts the car.

"You think-" Chuck restarts. "I don't think Dean thinks I'm a complete fuck-up. He wouldn't have let me do the binding if he did. Right?"

Sam reaches his hand over for Chuck to take it up again. "Dean knows you're not a fuck-up. Because you're not. You have a family in Kansas and they love you. Charlie and Claire and Cas and me. And Dean does trust you. We're your family; he's your brother; I'm your husband. I'm. I'm fucking sorry, Chuck, but whoever that was? She wasn't family. Family doesn't end with blood - sometimes doesn't even start with it. You earn your place in one," he says with confidence. Because he's learned.

Chuck considers Sam's hand. "I didn't even think I gave a shit. Why do I give a shit about what she thinks?"

Sam shrugs. "You grew up with her. You were. Like. Assigned a family. And. Maybe it's different now. Now that you can choose."

"Choose," Chuck repeats. Blinks off and away. "I didn't get. That means I didn't get chosen?" He wonders at that. "By my own. By my own family?"

"Alright." Sam turns the car back off and reaches past to roll Chuck's window all the way down. Tugs on him on the way back. "C'mere." He unbuckles Chuck and hauls him over. He takes him into his lap and watches him think for a moment before getting in his face and looking for his attention.

Chuck frowns at him.

Sam just smiles and smiles wider. Until Chuck can't not kiss him. It's a trick he's learned.

He pulls away from Chuck's lips. "They didn't listen. They didn't look. They didn't care. Their loss is my gain. I want to hear every fucking word. I want to wake up and see you every day. I wanna care for you. I do. I wanna know when things bother you so I can make them go away. I'm a scary guy. I can track her back down. Make her listen. Make her care. Or we can try again. See if she wants to have dinner. If she'll be reasonable. Or we can drive away and decide not to listen and not to care right back at her. You keep telling me that it doesn't have to be either/or. I don't have to pick one thing. You don't have to pick just one thing. We can try again now. We can try again later. We can give up on her." He shrugs, adjusts Chuck so he's closer. Pets a hand down his thigh. "Since you're the one who's earned it, earned being my family? I only care about your opinion. So." He frowns, nods. "Whatever you wanna do."

He lets Chuck think. Taps fingers on Chuck's leg. Kisses at his head after a while.

"She's the one who turned away from me because she couldn't take the time to understand. Because she has other things to deal with right now. So. And maybe that's. Maybe it's issues with the family or her job or whatever. But if she doesn't have the time for me. I have my own family to be with. If she gets her shit straight- AND YOU KNOW WHAT?? Sorry. You know what?"

Sam blinks and widens his eyes, tries not to smile, like, _enlighten me?_

"She didn't even give a shit about you except to make fun of you. She has no idea! who! you! ARE! Wow. WOW. I'm offended, now. Start the car. I don't have time in my life for people who don't like Sam Winchester."

"Oh. Is that why you dislike so many people?"

"I'm not talking to anyone, anymore, unless they can be nice to you. That's how it's gonna be from now on. How do these people even sleep at night?"

"Well, I? I don't have time in my life for people who don't like Chuck Winchester. So when your mom or your siblings show up on our doorstep groveling, and begging for your attention and showing you the praise you deserve, maybe then I'll give a shit. So that's that."

"Yes."

"Can I kiss you for a while?"

"Yes."

"Then you wanna go to the bunker?" he checks.

"Yes. Um. Hey?"

Sam nods.

"I have a cool name," he says, all quiet and soft eyes.

"WE MATCH," Sam enthuses.

"Makeouts?"

"Makeouts."

They make out until their parking meter runs out.

«»

They get to the bunker well past midnight. Sam settles Chuck down in their old room and has to go find Dean.

Chuck drifts off again, continuing from his doze in the passenger seat, and Sam closes the door behind himself, turns to head down the hall. Cas is already hanging out of his and Dean's room, curious.

"Sam?"

"Hey, man. He up?" he points.

"I'll get him," Cas offers.

"Okay. Kitchen?"

Cas nods and disappears.

Dean has moved the beer back out of his room since they don't come around so much anymore. Sam really fucking wants one right now.

He pulls a few from the fridge and sits at the kitchen table.

"Sammy," Dean's rubbing at his eyes but he comes over to dump himself down and pry open a cold one.

Cas hovers in the doorway, so Sam tips an unopened bottle at him and he comes to sit down, too.

"What's up? He here? You're drinking."

His breath puffs over the mouth of the bottle after he swigs. "He's asleep. We um. We did Denver today."

"Yeah. How'd it-. Oh." He doesn't need to ask. Slides his eyes to Cas and Cas frowns, opens his own beer.

"Yeah," he admits. "Pretty much."

"What, was she a complete bitch?"

"Charlie told you not to use that word," Cas pulls on his beer.

Dean sighs. "I'll put a quarter in the fucking jar."

"She was a grade-A asshole, let's put it that way. Apparently Chuck's just trying to 'blame all his problems on being gay' and her family has some sort of obsession with making babies that renders all non-reproductive relationships a 'farce.'" He adds fingerquotes for Cas's benefit.

Cas and Dean both narrow their eyes and slip straight into _dangerous motherfucker_ mode, which he honestly finds satisfying after trying all afternoon to keep Chuck positive and be comforting and supportive.

"He should have just told her he really is a dead felon," Dean caps his point clacking his beer on the table.

"That actually would have been better than the way we just sat there and took it to the face. What a goddamn waste of effort. What a fucking douche. I still can't fucking believe that happened." He stares at his beer as he twists it in its condensation ring. "Anyway. He wanted to be around here. He wanted to know you guys don't think just as bad of him. He needed to know," Sam shrugs, "just. That you guys let him stick around for a reason. That if he really was a fuck-up, you guys wouldn't have let us do the bind."

"It wasn't on us to _let_ you do it," Dean says in his weary voice like he's been repeating it a lot these days. Then he wavers. "But he's right. If I thought he was just a whiny prick, I would have bullied you out of it."

"And I would have let him," Cas shrugs. "But he's not a fuck-up." He nods, very sure. "He belongs here. With you, rather. And with us."

"He asked to come?" Dean wonders, lifting his drink again.

"Weird, right?"

Dean fails to look nonchalant instead of deeply pleased.

«»

Chuck wakes again, briefly, when he gets back and settles down in bed. He brushed his teeth so he could come close and kiss him and say, "Come home," and have Chuck automatically crawl into his arms and fall back to sleep.

He feels it a little more in the morning. Sam wakes to find him just staring at the ceiling in the dim light.

"I shouldn't feel bad about this," he swallows. "Because you're right. You _are_ my family. It shouldn't- it really shouldn't bug me."

"It's okay if it does," Sam pets his head. "Your whole frame around who they are, whenever you talk about them, is just that there they were all raucous and wild together. And there you were on the edge, trying to make sense of them and fit into it so you didn't get left behind. And that just didn't happen. But it's not like they made any accommodations. It's not like they held a spot open. Or worked around your personality. They just pushed you back to the side. And you shouldn't have felt that way. But it's okay if you're still messed up about getting pushed off. God knows I understand complicated families."

"You told Dean about everything?"

"Yeah. I told him back when you said I could come with. He's kind of been excited about it-"

"Oh, god," Chuck rolls over and presses his face into Sam's shoulder.

"No. I know. He just. You know, any chance to reach out and grab more people. But. I told him last night after we got in. He's pissed for you."

"I exposed you to my fucking family, he should be pissed _at_ me."

"He's not. You don't claim them. You haven't for a while. You tried to tell me. She had a shot at pulling you back. She maybe didn't know that's what it was, but," He shrugs. "Again: their loss."

Chuck's stomach growls. "I hope he has, like, a pie sitting around somewhere. I'm gonna steal it."

"We can probably convince him to make french toast. He's a big fan of eating feelings."

There is no pie, and it is not an appropriate time for breakfast but they still find Dean pulling shell shards out of a bowl of eggs that Cas cracked open.

Dean blinks at Chuck when they enter. "Hey."

Sam half-smiles at his brother and sits Chuck down at the corner chair.

Dean and Cas share _a look_. Cas reclaims the bowl from Dean and starts picking through, himself. Dean washes his hands and moves around Sam, at the coffee pot, for a towel. Then he flat-out walks up to Chuck and motions, "C'mon. Up."

Chuck cocks his head but stands.

"I'm gonna hug you," Dean announces. "You don't have to like it," he adds. And then he really, seriously does.

Chuck just blinks over his shoulder, wide-eyed at Sam, and pats his back a few times.  
Then he.  
Slumps.

"Sorry, man," Dean says.

Chuck sighs and Dean lets him go. Rattles him by the shoulder once, then moves away.

"Can we do french toast instead of omelets?" Cas asks him.

"Yes the hell we can," Dean says, and starts pulling more stuff out of the fridge.

When Sam sits down next to Chuck with his coffee, he quietly kisses him.

They all talk while the sounds of bacon popping and pans sizzling increases. But Sam has to keep turning to look at him. "Sorry," he eventually whispers. "He could have _asked_. You okay?"

"No, yeah. I mean. I'm fine. It's fine." He swallows, shakes his head. "Just. Overwhelming, maybe."

Maybe Sam has to put him back to bed. Or take the food out to the library for him, at the very least.

Chuck leans in, "Dean saved the world, too," he points out in a whisper. "And he lets me sleep at his house. He let me live here with you before. It's just. Yeah. He lets me stay here when he doesn't care about anybody more than you and Cas and-" a lid clatters and they glance to Cas, who cringes, Dean laughs, shakes something off his hand. "Betty. She just." He can't help but laugh thin and sad. "She wouldn't even have dinner with me. She didn't even sit a half fucking hour. I really. I mean. I really expected better. I thought it would be different. I thought she cared." Another laugh escapes. "I thought she cared. Man. I thought." He puts his elbow on the table, puts his chin in his hand and just shuts up.

Sam sweeps a hand up and down his back.

Then he stands and draws Chuck out of the kitchen to the next room. Just stands and hugs him for a while.

"I deserve it," Chuck says. "I did really just cut ties. I did, basically, say that I don't care if I have nephews because of her, I don't care about her job or any of their jobs or their lives. That's what my actions say. And I still don't actually _want_ to be involved in their lives. I didn't change enough for it to matter to her. For it to be significant and… functional and… so. I mean, I should just get over it."

He shakes his head. "It's tough, though, when the thing that she goes after, when she finally sees you again, is something that is so fundamentally _you_ , Chuck. A piece of you that you protected until now. It's a little different when her first reaction is to laugh. She didn't say, 'well, if you want me to give a shit about your husband, are you going to give a shit about mine?' -- she said, essentially, 'wow, guys doing guys, that's so hilarious!' So, honestly, I'm inclined to think she. She just. I think she's kind of just decided to look down on you." There's really no gentler way to put it and he can't really make it make sense, otherwise, at this point.

Chuck falls back a little to motion with his hands. "Then why did she email me?! I'm just fucking confused all of a sudden! Why did I even have to show up?!"

"Well, you've met her for lunch in the past, right? What did you talk about, then?"

"I don't know. We got drunk together. Ate. Talked shit about people from back home. And I was pathetic and poor. So she'd pay. She'd slip me a giftcard for fast food or something. Maybe a bottle of Jack."

Sam can't help but bristle. "So, okay. Look at it this way: maybe your family is so culturally tied to drinking that you wouldn't even get along when you're sober, anyway." 

Chuck blinks as if a fog just rolled away from the entire world. "Oh god. I didn't even think of that. Austin always called the straight-edge kids 'uppity princesses.'"

It's a layered issue. Sam has seen it before. Not just drinkers sneering at the sober, but sometimes, when people stop using or drinking around the people they used to have fun with, drinking and using, it's not just the sober person who changes. The perspective of the user changes, too. At some point, when Chuck explained that he was sober, Betty might have laughed at that, yeah, but then she might have been more hostile, thinking he was looking down on her.

Sam pulls his husband against him and sighs because he can't help but be relieved, now, that it didn't work out, after all. If she'd wanted to go to a bar - or even wanted to take Chuck out to dinner and have drinks or something - Sam would have been completely on edge. Not that he can't trust Chuck around booze. He can handle himself, Sam's totally sure about that, now. But if _that_ had been the true ticket back into her company? No fucking way. He almost forgot their family was more Dean's speed in that respect. He couldn't have watched Chuck walk back into that, no matter if they sneered at him or laughed - regardless, it would have been a subtle form of pressure. Sam could hardly hold him back from his family. He would have let Chuck do it, but he would have bitten his nails to the quick until he came home.

"Do that again," Chuck requests. So Sam takes another deep breath and sighs it out. "Reminds me of the triceratops in _Jurassic Park_ ," Chuck finally smiles. Sam hugs him tighter.

"Maybe she'll change her mind and you can meet her again. Maybe you're right," Sam allows. "But that kind of sounds like she was just contacting you to enable you before. And as much as I appreciate that you were fed and she occasionally helped you and you weren't dead when I caught up to you again, I would have a problem with the enabling. I wouldn't want that for you."

"I know."

"And I'm not allowed to boss you around just because we're married-"

"You're not bossing me around. You're outlining your objections. And you're making me feel better. And I love you, Sam. I really do."

"Where did you guys go?" Dean hollers.

"Uh. A minute!" Sam calls back. And for another minute all he does is hug Chuck's head and call him hermit crab until Claire wanders in mumbling about the noise.

«»

Since most of them are home at the bunker, Dean demands family movie night. Nobody can agree to go out and see something so they all stay in to watch something on tv.

Charlie has her chair and Dean and Cas take up most the couch, though Cas scoots so Claire can wedge in. Sam sits on the floor and offers his hand up to pull Chuck between his knees. He lounges against Sam as if he were a throne. Sam's hands round and round over his thighs real slow until his fingers start kneading in. Eventually Chuck tosses his right leg over Sam's and Sam diligently massages the muscles around his knee and the achy knee itself. Chuck makes tiny, tiny moans, hardly audible over the television. Just enough for Sam to know he's doing something right.

He reaches behind himself and draws Sam down with a light touch to his neck. Sam offers his ear.

"Don't stop," Chuck barely breathes the words.

Sam nods and keeps going until they all take a break to get snacks and the room rearranges over conversation and bowls of popcorn.

When they're all shut in, later, going to bed, Sam crawls up and spreads Chuck's legs and sits down with them bracketing himself. Settles there. "I haven't been taking care of your parts," he says, and contentedly keeps massaging Chuck's knee with kisses added in-between. He dedicates himself to the task until he's kneading Chuck's thigh, again, and pressing his teeth to it, trying not to suck and bite. Chuck watches and eventually rattles a breath and pushes his hand into his boxers to relieve a little of the pressure that Sam is so carefully building within him. Sam watches some and hums approval. Pulls Chuck's right leg to hook around himself and moves to his left thigh. After a while, he moves Chuck, pulls his boxers down and off and watches him touch himself. Then Sam spreads Chuck's legs again and pushes between them.

It's actually been a while. The stomach bug from the expired vitamins made Chuck miserable and, even after they fixed everything, he was still cautious about sex before they left for Denver. Sam needs to work on this, get back to him; prove that he's okay and that he still wants him. Prove that he's not gross and that he can trust his body again. It's a strange problem he didn't expect to encounter so, he's just gonna face it head-on. "I spend a lot of time in here, but I don't take much care of this, either," he parts Chuck's ass and scoots down to kiss there. Chuck's hand goes into his hair like he's going to object, but he doesn't. "You look amazing. You look well-loved," he smirks against the skin of Chuck's thigh, and then starts massaging at his ass, too. Mouthing at it and opening Chuck up with his tongue.

Chuck moans and Sam blindly pulls his other hand away from his dick. He's not supposed to do Sam's job anymore, tonight. Chuck gets that and just lounges there to feel.

Sam decides to move back up and suck at him, his fingers still working into him and massaging, eventually hitting that bright spot and speeding up a process that was taking a wonderfully long time. Chuck loses himself in the feel of it and lets his nervous tension slip away, lets Sam take care of him. Enjoy him.

Chuck is just a mess of broken sounds by this point, little cries rolling through him, encompassing softness of the bind behind every surge of sound. The first word he finds after a while is: "Pause pause pause," he heaves a breath, "pause?"

Sam pulls off him doing that audible-'pop' thing on purpose. "What's up, sweetheart?"

"You now," he blinks, finds words. "Sam. You. You use my parts now. For what _you_ need."

Fuck. Fuck yes. "Can I bite your thigh?" he asks, going breathless.

"Yeah. But don't-"

"It'll feel good, I promise. Can I fuck you?"

Chuck nods. Fucking _at last_.

Sam doesn't pull away, he just turns his head to attach his mouth to the inside of Chuck's thigh until he's left a good, wet mark there. Then he just climbs up and pushes aside his own boxers and presses the head of his cock there, teasing, just to make sure. A shiver rattles through Chuck where he's still basically plastered to the bed. Sam thrusts against him while his hands dig under the pillow for the lube.

"It's fine I'm fine I'm fine," Chuck chants low.

"It is. I'm supposed to take care of your parts, you're fine and you'll tell me if you're not." He is slow and teasing and then he pulls back to get them properly wet and pushes in to fuck slow. Chuck clings to Sam's neck and pushes his face there and can't move away, not for anything. It probably takes forever, but it feels like no time at all before Sam is losing his voice and his control and wrapping a hand around Chuck, begging him to come now, come _with_ , come _please_.

They're a mess for a while after because Sam lounges back down between his legs and talks about how that's just where he belongs. Because that's home. "Any time I'm in your body or on your body I'm home and that's amazing. Open your legs like I open a door and there you are and I'm home. I should decorate you better," he mumbles. Touches the impression he left on Chuck's thigh. "I don't think this is pretty enough. It's not quite befitting such a well-kept home."

Chuck curls the end of some of Sam's hair around his finger. "You're so fucking ridiculous."

"I'm only as ridiculous as you've made me, significant other."

"I think I'm all moaned-out right now but I promise I'm moaning for you on the inside," Chuck yawns.

"Can I fix it?" he strokes Chuck's thigh. "Please?"

Chuck sighs. "You can fix it. Then you can clean us up."

"Cool. Thanks," he kisses over the mark and up to the crease of his thigh until it drives Chuck crazy and then he comes back to suck at it and make it a good color.

Sam puts him in the middle of the bed and pulls his own clothes back into place. Kisses him again and heads out, closing the door behind him.

He narrowly misses coming across Charlie, pauses for a minute in the hall until he's sure he can get the bathroom to himself. He washes his hands and everything, quickly brushes his teeth while he waits for the tap to heat up. Then brings back a wet washcloth and a towel to clean Chuck up.

It's an important, focusing, worshipful ritual he _needs_ to go through, especially when Chuck has let him bite him or get a little "Oxford" with him.

Chuck seemed to think it was uncomfortably-close at first but now he leans into it. Enjoys it. And the way he responds to Sam's touching allows him to gauge if he made any marks he should be more careful with or if he went too far.

He also likes to just touch again. To clean him and be so close to him; likes that it's considered normal to touch him this way. It's invasive but Chuck lets him do a lot of things he's not comfortable with simply because he trusts him. He was that way with the touching in the first place, way back when. He needs to endure it, feel it, and decide if he can't stand it or if he could come to like it.

He likes this. Sam wakes him from a doze, carefully wiping and kissing him. He came to like being touched for no reason, which gave him a taste for being held and lifted. Sam still feels like it took such a long time to get to that point. Every moment he restrained himself from pressing close built to another day he simply had to leave Chuck's apartment. Go back out with Dean and Cas. Before he risked crossing the line.

Chuck's lines are fewer now. He still doesn't much like Sam washing his hair for some reason - he allows it rarely. And he does NOT like having his feet touched. He doesn't like for Sam to trace over the lines of his tattoo. He will also freak out if Sam keeps both hands at his neck too long. He slapped Sam away once and almost had a panic attack. Then Sam remembered finding him hiding in the bathroom choking himself.

Sam can touch his neck but when both hands almost circle, he can't seem to shake a certain feeling.

(He theorizes that it's more than the choke of demon smoke. It's not hard to imagine Zachariah grabbing him by his scrawny neck and throwing him around for refusing to _see_.)

But Sam has to admit to some gratification that Chuck has actively attempted to get used to his touch and not anyone else's. He gets to keep him for himself alone. He can come in close and sure and clean the come from his body and make sure he's soft and cool and slightly damp and smelling of nothing but them. And Chuck doesn't want to belong to the world. He just wants Sam to touch him. A deeply-satisfying assurance he's made on more than one occasion.

"'Kay, good enough," Chuck says after a while. "Come back home."

Sam lays down and pulls Chuck's leg over himself.

"Bring me home, too. I belong in a Sam Winchester."

He would have no problem getting hard again, hearing him say that. Chuck seeks comfort in him and lets Sam care for him. His big, dumb, killing hands have done this: brought him into Chuck's life in a way that means he never has to leave. He will always-always-always have someone to come home to. Sam pulls Chuck into his arms and they settle down to sleep.

It's getting harder to imagine a scenario where he'd fuck up so bad that this wouldn't continue to be true. That may not bode well - that may mean that, if it ever happens, he'll no longer possess the tools to recover.

But if he did something to drive Chuck away, when the simplest of things - like words and coffee and caressing his knees - make him so incredibly happy, he wouldn't deserve to recover.

Chuck doesn't ask for cars and diamonds or even forever-and-ever promises. He just doesn't wanna hurt anymore.

The most enduring thing his marriage requires of him is to prevent pain from ravaging his husband's life.

If he can't do that, he deserves to be dumped-off and alone.

But he _can_ do that. And he will.

Betty may change her mind. Come back around to a place where people's _lives_ don't serve as a punchline simply because of who they choose to call family.

He hopes it isn't too late. He hopes Chuck doesn't close himself off to her and she gets back in just in time to count herself among that chosen family.

That would be fair. It would be nice for her to have her brother and for her brother to have his sister and his nephews. It would be good for Chuck to have people if all the hunters went up against a big-bad and lost and he had to survive, go to ground.

If she's not that smart?  
Sam is prepared.

He can build a foundation - Dean taught him how.

Sam's making this house for them both. Securing their future together.

Chuck isn't gonna wanna hear this but he can ask if Sam will let him do it.

Chuck asked Sam to do the binding. It's the same principle: he's going to protect his significant other. But he's going to build an invisible future for Chuck. Something that he'll be able to use should the worst happen. Someplace else to hide. A new identity. A pathway back to the Shurlys if he needs to fall back on them.

The hunter's equivalent of writing him into his will.

If he's honest with himself, he knows that muggles like the Shurleys wouldn't be able to see what Chuck's become a part of without making some noise. For all they know, god or fate or destiny or whoever, gave Chuck anxiety in the first place to make a reclusive prophet out of him. It's unlikely that they could touch his life without getting infected by it in some way. So he can't count on them, for sure, as a backup for Chuck. They wouldn't be able to handle it anyway.

Betty's very words and actions yesterday speak to a deep fault, a very certain weakness within her. And if that weakness is more pronounced in the rest of her family, as he suspects, Chuck would be better off far from them.

He thinks.

He can plan this out. Probably with Charlie's help. Maybe Jody's as she keeps enough distance from them and she'll be near their home.

But he turns inward to look across the distance between them in the bind. Soft-sheeted and comfortable. A regular, almost unremarkable part of his life by now.

Still a completely unbreakable connection.

He can't consider it any more without speaking to Chuck about it. No secrets. Not on the big things.

In the morning Chuck wakes him and his thoughts pick up right where they dropped off when he slipped off to sleep.

"What the hell is your mind so busy over? I was dreaming of doing work all night."

Sam laughs. "Wow. Yeah. Definitely my fault. Sorry."

Chuck shakes his head. Sighs and yawns. Sits up.

"Mm. Come back here," Sam holds his arms out.

He jumps out of bed. "Gotta pee first." And leaves.

Sam doesn't move. He tries to think of how to phrase this so Chuck won't think he's being fatalistic.

When Chuck gets back, he closes and locks the door and looks down at the bed in a frazzle of worry.

"You need to talk to me," he states because he knows.

He holds out his arms again. "Yeah. Come back home."

Chuck climbs in to him but remains wary.

"I need to ask you for permission to do something."

"Okay?"

"I'm. I'm gonna make you a go-bag with IDs and maps and account paperwork and cash. For just-in-case."

"In case what?" he's rigid against Sam.

He takes a deep breath. "You know what."

Chuck takes little breaths against him. "I'm warning you. Don't fucking say it."

"I have to. The same way you had to plan just in case somebody tried to take me over again."

His eyes go glassy. "Please don't say it. I don't wanna think about it this week. I'll see a bell in my dreams," he clings.

"Okay. Okay." He doesn't want him to cry. He's been bummed out enough lately. "Just let me do the planning, though. I'll give you the details when you're ready for them. I know you'll have to be ready to talk about it. I'm asking for permission."

Chuck closes his eyes and sinks in against him. "Yeah. You have permission. I don't wanna hear about it."

"Okay. My turn to have a secret project, I guess."

"Your secret project to die and leave me alone," he says, all hollowed out.

"Well, this is going in the exact direction I was dreading." He's not surprised.

"I don't like it when you think you're gonna die!"

"I know! But it happens, like, pretty often!"

Chuck shakes his head and puts his palm over Sam's mouth.

He just presses his own hand over Chuck's and they sit there for a while.

"More of you is coming across the bind than usual," Chuck tells him.

Sam shrugs. He hasn't noticed much difference from when he decided to stop pushing it.

"I wonder why?"

Sam shrugs. Pulls their hands up. "It feels more normal than usual, to me. Could just be that I'm getting used to it." Maybe this means he's next. Maybe he'll get to see more soon.

Chuck squints and starts to say something but his phone chimes that he's got an email.

He slips away to grab it and comes back.

"I think we maybe have to do some sort of meditating on it or something. It's nothing like prayer, but maybe Cas can give us tips on-"

He stops.

He's stopped thumbing at his phone, too.

"What is it?"

He shakes his head and hands his phone over and turns to just bury himself against Sam.

**Chuck,**

**My flight out is this evening around six. I never gave you the book I've been holding on to.**

**If you feel like having a _serious_ conversation about your life, I would be free to have lunch with you.**

**If money is what you need, we can work it out with everyone back home. I don't think it's healthy for you to resort to entertaining boy-toys just to get by. If we had known things were that bad, we-**

He doesn't even finish reading. He drops the phone to his chest. "Can I reply 'Don't ever fucking speak to my husband again'?" he bites out.

"Would that be more or less healthy than 'entertaining boy-toys'?" he asks into Sam's skin.

He takes a deep breath. Goddamnit. Takes a deep breath and offers, "Do you want me to drive you back? I doubt we'd make it before 6, but I'll haul ass if you want. We can leave now."

Chuck shakes his head. Lifts up and leans over him. Licks his lips and considers what he wants to say. He breathes for a moment. "I'm kind of. This um. This has actually really hurt my feelings?" it comes out a little strained and he has to clear his throat.

Sam is so-so-so fucking sorry. He pets Chuck's sides.

"I haven't known you guys long-- well. You guys haven't known me for long, but. You trust me. And Dean trusts me, which is." He blinks. Kinda marvels at the thought of it all over again. "Cas is cool with me, I think. Enough to help me marry you. I know Claire the least and she still likes me. So does Charlie. And. I'm okay with you. I'm good here. I don't know if it's my fault for not telling her that or her fault for not letting me get that out. But. My life alone wasn't amounting to much. And if all she could do to remedy that was kick me a few bucks and tell me how well everybody's doing back in P-A, well. I just. My life with you _matters_ , Sam. You make a difference in the world and I keep you from telling yourself that you don't. So, it's kinda like I make a difference, too. I love you. And maybe if I can't make her understand that in the span of time it takes to have coffee, then they won't know that. Maybe that's my fault," he repeats.

"No. _Stop_."

"I wasn't good at it, Sam! But then again, I mean. All they ever tried was to make me one of them. Not try to take me for what I am. I've been bi the whole time. If I wasn't sick to my stomach knowing what kinda jokes they'd make about that, maybe they would have _known me_ the whole time. But. That's not what happened." He shakes his head. Repeats: "That's not what happened."

"We can try again, later. We can see if maybe she gets some distance from your mom after a while if it makes a difference and she actually wants to know you. I don't really think she knew you at all before. You were somebody else when you were all-drunk-all-the-time. I mean, shit. You didn't even get to tell her you're sober. She didn't give you a chance. 'So he plays the guy and you play the girl,'" he quotes. "I mean what the fuck was that? What's the point to even saying that? Would she talk to a fucking co-worker like that? Or just you because she assumes you need money? What the fuck kind of-"

He stops himself.

Pulls Chuck down on him if they're not going to hop back in the car, back to Denver.

"I'm so sorry I made you do that. I told you I wanted to come and you thought it would be a bad idea and that just didn't sink in for me. I thought she'd be like you. I thought it'd be amazing to know there's more than one of you out there. I wanted to see. But now I'm going over these different little things you've said in the past and I'm pretty sure I got the only Shurley worth having."

Chuck sniffs and he's facing away so Sam can't tell how sad he is. "Winchester," he says. "Please stop calling me that. I did choose a last name."

He really didn't, not 100%, not officially. But if that's what he wants to be called, Sam won't forget it. He'll stop using the other one. "Okay." He strokes a hand up and down Chuck's back. "Tell me what else you need. Tell me."

Chuck doesn't respond.

"Do you wanna reply to the email at all?"

Chuck just shifts a little.

"What's the book she's talking about?"

"Donno. One she's been trying to send me for a while."

"Okay. I still have that post office box. Do you want to have her send it there?"

Chuck finally turns to him. "Yeah. Yeah, if that's okay?"

He picks the phone back up and hits reply, writes her name out and the address. **If you want to send the book** , is all he adds.

He doesn't want to ask, but, "Do you want to say anything else?"

Chuck stays quiet for a long time. "I don't want it to be but this is really bugging me." He looks sad. Sam doesn't want him to cry over this. It's not worth it. Assholes aren't worth feeling like this.

"I know. But you might have to let it go for a while. You might have to let her grow up."

"Maybe. Just send it."

Sam signs his name for him. He's tempted to write out his full name. But that would simply be unwise considering what it is now.

He sends it and sets Chuck's phone aside.

"What do you need today?" he palms Chuck's face.

"Need you to speak for me. Write my emails and talk to people so I don't make any dumb decisions. I can trust you."

"Yeah you can, I promise," he draws him into a hug. "But you can trust yourself, too. Don't let them make you question that. I'd say you got pretty far without them."

"Got pretty far with you. Let's kidnap Claire and go do something."

"What about the rest?"

"We can't kidnap Dean, Cas would lay the whammy on us."

"What if we took everybody, though?" he wheedles.

"Okay! Okay, fine. Where are we going?"

"Should we check to make sure there are no hunts first? Then we can go on a family vacation. Dean's supposed to be going on more of those than he is."

"'Kay," Chuck sighs. Squints off again.

"We should work on the bind," he almost forgot they were talking about that.

But Chuck waves him off. "I was thinking about something else. I need something else. I need my significant other."

Shit. He rolls him over, presses him back. "Ready. What's up?"

Chuck pulls his hand out of the sheets and up to his face to kiss it. "I know you don't like taking your rings off. So tell me you'd marry me all over again, anyway. Tell me you'd say 'yes' to me."

"Every time. Retroactively, even. I'd go back in time and do it earlier."

"How much earlier?"

"I'd ask instead of getting in the truck."

"Bullshit."

"I'd push you into the back of the Hyundai and make out with you until you opened your legs for me," he opens Chuck's legs to make room for himself.

"Never on the first detox, buddy. Hands above the waist."

"Am I not allowed until the second?"

"You always kick up an emo fuss about the fucking Winona thing, anyway," he gripes, as if he's not equally guilty. "How about you ask me after you come around and hug me again?"

He lifts Chuck's hand to suck down his fourth finger until the wedding band is in his mouth and takes it off with his teeth. Takes the other off and pulls Chuck's legs close and tight around himself. "Hold my ears again."

"We've done this one so many times I forget which one is real."

"That's the point of our fanfiction," he sounds muffled to himself. "Chuck? I know the last month was hard. I shouldn't have abandoned you. I never will again. Will you marry me?"

"Yeah. Goddamn. Gimme those back."

He pries his right hand down first to replace his engagement ring. Pulls the left off to do the same with his wedding ring.

"I want your teeth on my arm. On my shoulder. Somewhere on my arm, anyway."

"Which one?" he pulls the left up and around himself.

"Yeah."

He starts mindlessly grinding onto Chuck at some point. Chuck _moans_ as he leaves a polite little bruise on his upper arm, so he gets away with making another one, big and beautiful on his shoulder as they roll into each other. He keeps his eyes closed until he realizes he can watch Chuck lose his grip, eyes rolling back and hips popping up. And that gets him going, of course, watching his own slow shove make Chuck into a frantic mess. They keep their clothes on and end up crying out into each other's mouths.

At some point there are noises from Chuck's phone but Sam deliberately starts talking over it, voice rough at Chuck's ear telling him in detail why he can't even pause to take his shorts off for him, _so sweet, so f u c k i n g perfect_ , and they both finish loud.

He doesn't think about it again until they're long out of the shower and Chuck's bumped coffee back up to the top of his priorities.

He grabs both their phones, intending to follow him to the kitchen.  
But he bites his lip and sits and unlocks Chuck's.

Three emails from Betty.

The first is a phone number. **\-- Call me. Betty.**

The second is, **I can loan you $200 but that's all right now. I can meet you Lala's Wine Bar, 1 PM. Prefer you to come by yourself.**

The third is longer.

**Chuck,**

**When you told me outside the coffee shop that you got married and I thought it was a very immature joke - I didn't mean that. I KNEW it was a joke. People in your situation don't get married for out of nowhere without some sort of obligation attached and if you won't tell me what it is that's going on, we are just going to have to assume the worst.**

**There will be a discussion when I get home with everybody and you should think about how that's something you should really be involved in. There is a way to handle yourself and this is not it. You need to think about speaking up if you need help. Since Anna has moved in with Eric there is always plenty of room for you at mom's house and she won't expect rent. If you can help with groceries and get a job, we will work it out with her. If mom has too much of an issue with it due to your present circumstances, I'm sure Uncle Topher is still willing to help you get into the insurance office and can help you with a place to stay near them.**

**I think we all expected at some point you would wise up a little and find your way. You are way past an experimental phase and I've been talking with Austin. He says he's been worried about this coming up for a while. Everyone is concerned about you now and bringing this news back home is going to raise a lot of questions. You should be around for that.**

**I'll try and get everyone to consider a bus ticket home at the very least and we can go from there. There is no reason for you to feel obligated to someone you just met. If issues arise with "SAM" Dylan works for an attorney now and I think we would be able to get you some legal help with it.**

**There is a maturity level here that you need to meet. I will know if you are serious about handling your problems if you call me. We are always here for you, Chuck.**

**Betty**

Out of all the things roiling in him, he still gets an incredulous, sick little laugh out of the fact that his name is uppercase and in quotation marks.

This is so fucking beyond anything he could have imagined.

What the hell is wrong with these people?

The very last thing he wants to do in all of his fucking existence is take this phone out to Chuck right now and let him see these goddamn emails. There's a black-sludge dread crawling down his throat like a mouthful of blood.

His mind throws _how dare they_ and _how the hell_ at him in equal measure.

He simply never could have imagined such a reaction. Why would she say these things to his--

This was supposed to be about Chuck extending his hand to his family again. Maybe-maybe-maybe about Sam meeting a cool sister and trying to avoid the legality issues long enough for Chuck to establish another social foothold that might help him if shit went sideways. Mostly it was about Chuck having _people_. Familiar _people_. More people in his life, but ones he could really feel comfortable around.

And this is who they turn out to be?

Now it's like two steps away from all the Shurleys assembling an intervention and forcing Chuck to divorce his big, creepy, fake husband.

It's so far out of the realm of expectation he keeps thinking he's gonna laugh and then all he does is cover his mouth and rub his temple.

So now he's gotta decide how bad this is gonna stress Chuck out, if at all; if he has to pull him out of the kitchen to show him; when he'll do it - before or after he's eaten; and, if he can delay this at all, even just a little bit.

He's tempted to call Charlie into the room and close the door and ask for help. But that would feel too much like putting up a buffer between him and Chuck for an inevitable explosion.

What he _wants_ to do is talk to Dean about it, but Dean will just shove everybody in the car and drive all the way to Six Flags and tell Sam to put it off until Chuck's in an extra-good mood or something. He doesn't _actually_ know how to deal with this kind of thing, though he does try.

He's seriously just gonna have to fucking rope Chuck out of the room and sit him back down for more bad news.

This is fucking awful. Why the fuck is this happening?

He clomps upstairs, in no hurry to deal with it.

It turns out that Chuck's in the library with a bowl of cereal and Charlie's showing him something, throwing out numbers and he's nodding.

She spots Sam and grins and then pokes Chuck in the arm, "I can't wait!" she says.

"Alright," he chews, "calm down."

Sam clunks down in the chair next to him.  
And gives up his phone.

Pushes it over with the screen unlocked.

Chuck groans and drops the spoon into his bowl.

"Shut the fuck up," he mutters, opening the first and second emails.

He gets to the third and they all go quiet. Sam and Charlie watch him.

Half-way through, he slumps, sighs, looks to the ceiling and says, "I literally hate you."

Chuck addresses god like that a lot. It's always when something disgusts him. Sam doubted what he was seeing at first, but, no: Chuck will specifically turn his eyes to heaven and tell god to fuck himself.

Charlie's confused. Sam just shakes his head.

Chuck's jaw clamps up by the end and he looks like he's gonna toss his cereal back in the bowl.

"You read this?" he manages to ask.

"Yeah?" way-reluctant.

His hands go to his face. He rubs his nose. Presses at his eyes. Turns the screen off. Rubs hard at his neck. Sniffs. Claws at his beard. "Fuck," he finally says.

"Something up?" Charlie asks. Then she creeps her hand over to the phone.

Chuck doesn't stop her.

She reads the email.

Chuck sits there like he's trying to get a grip while she does.

Sam honestly doesn't know if he's supposed to reach out and touch him.

She eventually puts the phone down, carefully. "Um. Excuse me, but. What the fuck did I just read?"

Chuck pushes away from the table and turns and leaves and Sam just can't. He has to follow.

When he turns he sees that Dean's been in the doorway, off the side. His eyes are narrow and they only follow Sam as he exits after Chuck.

It crawls up his skin. Like Dean thinks he should've known better.

He really, _really_ understands that Dean told him so. He really, _really_ just hopes he doesn't say it out loud. Holy shit.

Chuck goes down to the garage.

He's sitting in the back seat of the Impala, rubbing two fingers over his mouth.

Sam gets in the back, too. Shuts them in but sticks to his own side. If Chuck feels like Sam _did this_ to him, he doesn't want him to feel like he can't get right back out and escape his company.

(If that happens he will feel like _screaming_ but he couldn't possibly blame him at the moment.)

It's quiet. Even the background hum of electricity is blocked out in here with the windows up.

After a moment, Chuck puts a hand up. "See, this is the thing - this is what's going on here: these _fucking people's lives_ are so _tiny_ that they've got literally nothing else to do. Somehow there's like _three hundred_ of them in my whole family between brothers-in-law and nephews and nieces and cousins and whatever else. And they all are locked down tight in their little lives in their little towns at their little jobs so, yeah, they're gonna have nothing else better to do than imagine the most incredible details to fill out the parts of this story that they're missing. I mean. That? That was utterly absurd. 90% of the shit she wrote in that email was the result of her _failing_ to give me five more seconds to explain what's been going on in my life right now. I told her - when we were out on the sidewalk? And I saw it in her eyes. I saw her mind just take off running like this was the greatest gossip and she couldn't fucking _wait_ to get home to dish and talk about how I'd ruined my life even worse than before. I mean, before? On my own? That was insignificant. When I was alone and a piece of shit, it was no big deal. It wasn't interesting it was just a pitiful shame. But now?" he motions between them. "Now there's sex, deviance, and drama. So it's interesting. I'm finally-" he laughs, half-hysteric. "I'm finally worth _notice_ ," his voice breaks and a breath breaks and Sam could hire someone to meet her at the airport to break her spine with the way he feels when he watches the first sob pour out of him.

Sam agrees with Chuck. This is ridiculous. And god is a motherfucker.

He moves forward and pulls Chuck in. Sam envelops him and he sobs a few times and shakes his head and scrubs at his hair and tries to stop entirely. "Ugh. This is. This is." He wipes his face off, impatient, and Sam has to pull his hands down and stop them from clawing at his cheeks again. "This is ridiculous. This is humiliating."

Sam feels a knife-twist of disgust with himself. But Chuck isn't humiliated on his own behalf:

"She wouldn't give you a chance and she. I couldn't even crawl out of my shell long enough to be like, _fucking stop. You have no idea who this guy is._ " He shakes his head. "This is embarrassing. I can't believe I put you through this. I can't fucking believe she would blame this on you. Or say any of that shit. I don't have perspective anymore. On how tiny their lives are and how they're clawing for fucking something to talk about. It's like she's got nothing better to do than to specifically drill home the fact that she's more successful than me and, in her _successful opinion_ , I've officially drowned and am in need of a _rescue_. I'm finally worth my family's time and it's based on them knowing less-than-nothing about me. I'm so fucking pathetic."

"Stop," Sam grates out, yet again. And it's harsh and it's meant to be harsh. "Stop saying that shit. This isn't about what they think of you, this is about them and their lack of hobbies." He tries to be softer. Tries to hold Chuck close and turn his head gently. "There's nothing for you to be embarrassed about. You don't control their actions. I'm sorry, Chuck, but this is just the same old bullshit: they won't listen to you. They won't listen. I hate them," he hisses, though he didn't mean to and he tries to get a grip. But Chuck just closes his eyes and knocks his head under Sam's jaw, pressing in and taking handfuls of his shirts.

"I don't feel irrational anymore telling you that I just want them to fucking go away," Sam lets loose. "I'm your family. I am. _I'm your family_. They have no right to you. They don't get to treat you like this your whole life and only take interest when it can be fucking gossip fodder for them. Fuck them. They don't get you. _I get you_. You're _mine_. Only you get to choose your family anymore. Those people don't get a claim on you." He clutches Chuck's head close. "Tell me I can say this."

" _Oxford_ ," he breathes into his neck.  
 _Yes_.

"You're not a Shurley anymore, you're my husband, you're a Winchester, you belong _here_. You only belong where I am. Oh my god. Oh my god she'd take you away from me if she had the chance. Like she thinks I couldn't do anything but _use_ you and pay for things. She has no idea you bought me my rings and you worked so hard right up until the day they took that away from you. Nobody understands how much I need to take care of you." He's mindlessly rocking them by now. His eyes fluttering closed with how good it feels to talk this way. It's so possessive it's almost _dirty_. He wants to be owned by Chuck so fucking hard. He wants Chuck to never look away from him. Sam is already so stuck on him there's no way he could look elsewhere. At the press of Chuck's teary face into his skin all he can think is _he's mine and someone hurt him_ and he could scorch the earth.

"Fuck," Chuck climbs into his lap to get closer. To bring his arms around. "Stay still, Sam. Listen to me. Listen to the bind. Listen to me."

So Sam clamps his eyes shut and does exactly as he's told. And what presses in there, spanning the space between them is a cottonball fuzz fog-in of certainty. It feels foreplay-good. Naked-touching-good. Sure-he's-gonna-get-laid-good. It's Chuck _entrusting_ himself to him and just falling across the connection. So Sam is allowed to have everything that he is because Chuck trusts him with it. Sam is allowed to _have_ every ounce of him and he thrills with it. Chuck thinks so highly of him and he's allowed to just _keep everything about him_.

Fucking yes. Yes, fucking yes.

Sam clamps around his body and moans into his hair before it washes back like returning to the sea.

He can pant his breath back in the wake of it.

He can push Chuck to the seat and seal their mouths together and that gets his head rubbed, his hair combed, his neck stroked.

"Why would I ever give you up? How could I possibly do anything but keep you? No one is going to earn this more than me," he swears. "They aren't worth crying over. You're only ever gonna cry when I make your life beautiful. I'm through with this shit where you get sad. I'm done with it."

Chuck pulls him down again to go mindless against his mouth for a bit longer.

It occurs to him that they've never had a full-on session in the back of the Impala and that feels almost incomplete. It feels unfair.

They're so safe in here. It'll happen another time. It would feel so right.

For now he can keep him close and wait to be told what to do. It feels like he got Chuck into this, but it also feels like a dodged bullet: if he hadn't been there with Chuck when he met Betty, she might have succeeded in mocking and belittling his new life without Sam there to tell him point-by-point how wrong she was. She might have taken him to a bar and gotten drunk in front of him. She might have made him feel worse in ways he doesn't even want to predict.

Chuck hangs on to his ears again as he leans above him.

"Let's take the car and drive out there and fuck on her front lawn so everybody knows what they're missing out on."

Sam nearly drops on top of him laughing.

"Everyone's gonna envy the Sam Winchester fuck style. Let's make some people question their sexuality."

"I'm flattered, but that might make the internet faster than our first Vine," he grins.

Chuck goes soppy-pouty and cards Sam's hair back. "I like that one," he whispers.

"Me, too." Half the views on it are probably just him, alone. Sam takes a breath. "Dean tried to tell me this was a bad idea."

Chuck thinks about that for a while. "He's almost got an extra sense about these things. He can call peoples' motives and alliances and leanings with an absolute minimum of information."

"It's pure instinct. Can't learn that kinda thing. Aaaand I know that. Aaaand I constantly ignore it," he admits chagrinned.

"Do I have to hug him myself, now, or can I keep making you do that?"

He shrugs. "We don't have to hug him for being right. He'll tell us he was right and you won't want him to get a hug after he rubs that in. Promise."

"What did I fucking tell you?" they hear muffled outside.

"As if on cue," Chuck marvels.

The front door opens. "Stop making out in my car," Dean orders. He gives them a second to sit up then he gets in, closes the door, turns in the seat, hands Chuck's phone over.

"Who does this bitch think she is?"

"You're not supposed to say that word," Chuck says.

"I--" Dean growls and turns and digs a dollar out of the glove compartment.

Sam reaches to snap it up. "She doesn't matter. We're gonna ignore her until she comes back to Chuck and fucking apologizes.

Dean points down at the phone in Chuck's hand. "Try again."

Chuck scowls and unlocks it.

There are two new emails from Betty. "Are you fucking kidding me," he slumps.

Chuck opens the first.

**Will your boyfriend not let you call me?** it says, with her number listed again. **That's abusive and unhealthy, Chuck.**

Chuck looks up at him like _are you seeing this shit?_

The second one is a forward from another address.

"It's my cousin Carl," Chuck scowls like that means nothing good and blanks out the phone without reading. "She's made sure _everyone_ knows." He sighs and looks up to Dean.

"What the hell did that email mean?" Dean demands.

"You know, I'm not even sure? I think she thinks that Sam is basically trafficking me or some shit. Peddling my ass."

Dean shakes his head. "Why did you stop talking to your family?" he asks, point-blank.

Sam's about to tell Dean he can't just request all of Chuck's private background, but Chuck only scoots into Sam's side so he has to put his arm around him. "They're just so intolerably fucking invasive. As if they've got a right to your whole life. But if you actually tell them that you _are_ anything other than what they expect, they decide you're full of shit. If you've got enough voice to out-shout them, you say something, you insist, they have to accept it. But." He shrugs, at a loss.

"But you didn't feel like being that loud and they decided they could ignore you," Dean concludes. "They all _bumpkins_ or something??"

Chuck shakes his head. "The only person in my family without at least a 2-year degree still has a bunch of technical certificates and shit. Like, no one in the whole family is an idiot. But that just makes them know-it-all pricks."

"Nice," Dean scowls. "If you were quiet, why couldn't they just leave you alone? If someone wants to be left alone?" Dean motions just at a loss, like, _why bother??_

"That's not the way they see it, Dean," he tries to explain. He thinks for a moment, trying to put it a way he would understand. "Okay, like, how you feel about Sam? There's stuff he likes that you don't care for, but you're like, _that's just a Sam thing_ , and you love him for being geeky and you move on with your life."

Dean shrugs.

"Imagine if Sam's different taste in music was a matter of personal fucking offense to you."

"It often is," Dean grins at him.

Sam flips him off.

"Not in a jokey way. More like religion. Like, _everyone likes it this way already. Why do you have to like it the other way?_ Like a challenge. As if the fact that different people are born with different tastes is unfathomable. Like Page, Plant, and Bonham are the Father, Son, and Holy Ghost and fucking Bon Iver is a challenge to _who you are_ and your actual way of life."

"Uh. But it's not."

"Imagine this, though: You're born first. Another you is born next. A _third_ you comes into the family. Then Sam. Then two more of you. Five Deans and a Sam. It's pure statistics, at that point. Loud, loud, loud, quiet, loud, loud. Parents? Loud and louder. One of these things is not like the other. And instead of just letting me live? They constantly wanted to know why I was uncomfortable. And prove that I wasn't by making me more uncomfortable. Like they were trying to squeeze out of me that I was just fulla shit and I was secretly exactly like them the whole time. So when I did blow up enough for them to listen? I didn't know how else to do it than by just cutting out and going completely silent." He looks down at his phone. "Which I'm about to do right now. By deleting this damn account."

Another email pings.

"Ah. Tricia. Letting me know how happy and knocked-up she is, I'm sure."

Dean tries to absorb all this for a minute. They hear a muffled door slam far away and eventually Charlie rounds the car and gets in next to Dean.

"Hi. I hacked Betty Sterling. Two more keystrokes and I could own her ass."

Chuck sighs. "Don't bother with it, Charlie." He thumbs around on his phone but doesn't open the forwarded emails.

"You don't wanna know her dirt or anything?" Charlie tries to tempt him.

"I do," Dean raises his hand.

Chuck looks up to Sam. "Can I just delete this? The whole account."

He blows out a breath. "Sweetheart, that's not up to me. Whatever you need most is what I want you to do."

"C'mon, let's call her back at least once, first, and tell her to fuck off," Dean protests.

"I didn't wanna have to get rid of this phone yet," Chuck gripes. "Anyway, this whole thing has been too close to the line. I'm supposed to be dead. I shouldn't have even answered the email."

"Well, I can get you a burner," Dean scoffs. "Just to call her. Just to be like, 'Fuck you, you don't know me.'"

"What's the point?" Chuck shakes his head.

If his voice gets any closer to watery, Sam is gonna make that call, himself.

He shouldn't say he wants to hear the dirt that Charlie hacked on her, but it's on the tip of his tongue. He wants Chuck to be able to laugh at her, but if he'd rather just not think about it, then Sam can't be a vindictive Winchester; he's gotta be a good husband.

Cas finds them next, pokes his head in the window curiously when Dean rolls it down.

"We're debating whether Chuck should just disappear or if he should tell his sister off," he explains.

Claire pops out of nowhere, opens the back door, and wedges in next to Sam. Closes the door again. "What's going on?"

So Dean pulls Cas into the seat between him and Charlie, sits down again, and closes the whole family into the car. One explanation of the entire story should do.

Sam clears his throat. Starts from the beginning. "So. Chuck has two big sisters, an older brother, and two younger sisters," he starts. He smushes Chuck comfortably into the corner, by the door and keeps hold of him. Takes his phone and turns off the volume and puts it in his shirt pocket. Chuck settles, rests against him. Listens like the rest, fingers making idle circles on Sam's knee.

Sam tells them everything. He flubs what he doesn't remember perfectly and only asks Chuck to speak up with the whole list of names again.

Dean, Cas, and Charlie look over the seat and exchange little _looks_ over certain points in the tale.

Claire scoffs openly.

Chuck's family is alien to all of them.  
Charlie's family was small and adoring.  
His and Dean's has always been tiny and fucked-up until recently.  
Claire's was small and peaceful until Jimmy disappeared.

He doesn't consider, until he's done explaining, that the only person here who's really even remotely qualified to speak to Chuck's family and the situation...

is Castiel.

While the others exclaim and object, after, wanting to know Betty's dirt and team up against her, Cas stays quiet. His eyes are still narrowed, face disapproving.

But. "Cas?" Sam says. "You're the weird kid in a family full of loud bastards."

Cas frowns and.  
Agrees.

"What do you think?"

He inhales and looks to Chuck, barely visible on Sam's far side. "I think it's hard for Chuck's family to understand who he is. I think that's because they're comfortable viewing life within a single frame. Chuck is aware that there are multiple frames to reality. And he knows he'd rather spend time in one over another. Personally, I think it's hard to let go of family. I don't think that's hard for _Chuck_. But. I think your and Dean's expectations allowed him to extend the benefit of the doubt where he wouldn't have, otherwise. While I think that Chuck has established a certain amount of self-control with regards to his addiction, I feel your enthusiasm for the meeting made you forget that Chuck's family is, on the whole, largely alcohol-dependent. You put him at risk of allowing them to not only impact his sobriety, but reestablish what was clearly a dominance over him. Not a familial partnership - a dominance," he asserts. "Not like here, where there are six of us and his is a respected voice. I think your curiosity came before your partner. And you should apologize."

Sam blinks in the wake of his speech.

"God. Harsh, Cas," Dean elbows him a little.

"Your unfounded idealization of family is as much to blame," Cas cocks an eyebrow at him. "You have the slimmest basis through which you view the concept of family and deem it idealistic when the only family that's truly brought you happiness has been assembled almost as if by hand. You push the fantasy on every human you know while knowing better, yourself. You raised Sam with one hand proverbially tied behind your back and yet you view classical family units as if they are sacred paragons of strength and humanity. You should stop talking shit," he points out.

"Fucking. Owned." Claire proclaims.

Dean looks winded. Puts his hands up.  
"Chuck: I'm sorry," he says. Looks to Cas. "Okay?"

Cas nods.  
And all attention falls.  
On Sam.

It's. Uh. Finally getting a little warm with all these bodies in here.

He looks down to his husband.

Chuck looks kind of doubtful.

"I'm." He takes a breath. "Chuck. I think. I really am guilty of putting my curiosity before you. I don't even know, now, what positive outcome could have resulted from this. I mean. I guess I was hoping you'd have someone to fall back on. But who? I mean. A family of heavy drinkers who didn't care what you have to say when your words are one of the most important things in my life. I thought highly of Betty on the one fact alone: that she still speaks to you. But based on this?" he pulls the phone out of his pocket and taps it on his knee. "I didn't think of why she still speaks to you. With her enthusiasm right now? It's pretty much just so she had something to gossip about. I see that, now. She looked down on you and she felt secure about who she is and where she's ended up in comparison. And that's just... crappy. So. I am, really, very sorry. I love you. And the only way I can really make this up to you is." He licks his lip and. He suddenly can't think of anything adequate.

"You could stop thinking of this as impermanent," Chuck suggests into the heavy silence.

That stings. "I don't think of us as impermanent."

"You wanted to make a go-bag. So I had a lifeboat in case the hunting goes south. In what fucking world would I leave the rest of our family alone if you were gone? Claire? And Cas? Charlie and Dean if they outlived you? Would you jump ship if I died?"

Well. Not in _that_ sense, but he can't say so aloud. He feels the weight of all their eyes again but doesn't turn away from Chuck. "I'm sorry."

Chuck shakes his head. "It's fine. It's not that big a deal," he looks between both him and Dean. "We didn't think this through at all. I shouldn't have responded in the first place. I should be playing dead. If I don't shut her down right now this is gonna come back to bite me in the ass somehow, regardless, and I don't think it's gonna be by way of family drama. So fine. Just. How do I shut this all down?"

They sit and chew on that for a minute.

Chuck takes a breath and closes his eyes. "Dean, go open the garage door," he says.

Dean looks to Sam and frowns.  
But gets out and goes to open up the garage.

Charlie rolls her window down and Claire does the same to Sam's left. So he reaches over Chuck to crack his window, too.

Dean returns. The garage is all lit by a hazy blue morning.

Chuck opens his eyes. "I didn't get to finish my breakfast."

Dean shrugs and pulls out his keys. Starts the car.

Everybody gets settled a little warily.

"I don't have my shoes," Claire says.

Neither do Charlie or Chuck. But him and Dean are usually dressed to run all the waking hours of the day. It's just habit. Cas is as ready as he ever is.

"We'll hit a drive-thru," Dean says. He likes to be told to just power down the road. It's where he does his thinking.

They all seem to be mulling shit over as Dean steers them toward town.

They hit BK and Dean orders and pays for everyone up front. Then pulls forward three feet. Claire orders and Sam pays for them in the back.

Dean drives to a hill overlooking the farmland and everybody gets out to sit on a fence or the car hood, eat, drink their coffees.

"I think," Dean starts, still chewing, "that I oughta make the call."

"Why you?" Claire challenges.

"I'm like," he shrugs, "the head of the family. I mean, Charlie is on the business end, but as far as this goes-"

"You're also way wicked more dead than anybody else in the family. You shouldn't be in contact with them just as much as me and Sam shouldn't," Chuck shakes his head and swirls his coffee.

"I'm still finding this all really hard to believe," Charlie says. "I mean in this day and age? I thought she was supportive of you. What the hell would make her--" Charlie waves a hand. "Sympathy for her mom or whatever. Right, right. But then what the fuck is her mom's deal? Won't she hear about this and blow up thinking everybody's picking on her son? Won't she be glad you found a life with somebody?"

"That could depend on the way Betty spins it," Chuck sighs. "Of course, she's really not inclined to care in the first place. I don't intend to give her _grandbabies_. Even if she was holding out hope for me to change my mind, like, what? _Hey, ma, you know how you always worried I'd give you grandkids as socially inept as me? You can definitely stop worrying!_ "

"Maybe Claire can play your kid," Dean ribs her.

"Gross," she lobs a little hash brown at his face but it bounces off and he catches it and that just gives him more to eat.

"I could call," Charlie says. "I mean, I'm less recognizable than any of you and Dean's right, I am in charge."

It sounds the most reluctant she's ever been and she shrugs half-relief when Chuck shakes his head no.

He wipes his fingers off and pulls his phone back out.

Sam watches as he opens the new emails.

He scrolls to see that they're forwarded Facebook notification emails.

Six have been sent from different names. Chuck only opens two of them.

Sam sees Dean eyeing the phone. Watches him wipe off his fingers.

Sam shoves him off the fence when he reaches to make a grab for the phone.

"I know how hungry you are to start shit, but it's Chuck's decision to call or not."

"I wasn't gonna call! I wanna read the emails out loud."

"Oh, that's helpful," Cas says, picking through a sausage. (Sam does not want to know why.)

After staring off for a while, Chuck leans over and hands Dean his phone. "Go get me a burner."

Dean hops back off the fence and rounds the Impala to dig in the glove compartment.

"Whatcha doin'?" Sam rubs at his back.

Chuck clears his throat. "Calling in the big guns." He hops down to accept the phone from Dean and lets him keep his own.

He extends a hand to help Charlie off the hood of the car and they both go barefoot across the grass until they're a ways out into the field.

They talk for a while and then Charlie stands back with her hands on her hips as Chuck finally dials and makes the call.

But Dean's got his phone, scrolling through the previously unopened emails.

"Geeze, listen to this asshole," he leans over to show Sam the screen as he reads from it. " _He's always been so disrespectful. What a shame. You know he's gone from selling himself to newspapers to selling himself for cash. I bet it's oxycontin or smoking crack._ Are these fuckers even real? And what, exactly, were you wearing to that meeting that made her think you're Chuck's pimp? You got a feathered hat and mink coat I don't know about?"

He rolls his eyes. "Dean. Seriously." He gives up and looks over to Cas. "What are they saying?" Chuck's already hung up but they're not heading back yet.

Castiel squints off toward them. "They're discussing the implications of federal involvement."

"What??!" he and Dean echo each other.

They watch as Chuck and Charlie head back. She's dismantling the phone. Chuck tosses random pieces out in the grass.

She goes to put a couple parts under the car's back tires.

Chuck marches up and accepts his coffee back from Sam.

"Chuck?" he prompts.

"Hi. This is Austin Shurley," he says in a super dry voice. "I need you to get in contact with one of my family members regarding a conman who's attempted to pass himself off as my brother. Chuck Shurley? He died in custody last year. Please call us back," and he rattles off Betty's number in that strange, grating tone.

"You just reported yourself to the FBI?" Dean laughs. "Rather than calling and bitc- shouting at your sister, you just erased the meeting entirely?"

"Yep. Can I have that back?" He points to his phone. "Gotta delete my email account before they call Betty."

Sam dumps his head in his hands for a second before hopping down and following Chuck to the back seat.

He gets in the left and scoots to the middle. Chuck's pressed himself back against the other door. His coffee is between his knees. Sam takes it and stares off out the windshield. Charlie is handing Cas little pieces of the phone to pulverize with his bare hands.

Chuck puts his phone down after a while. "You mad at me?" he asks real quiet.

"No. I'm the one who got you into this. It's like Cas said-"

"That was bullshit," Chuck reaches up and palms his face so he'll look down to him. "I could have gotten back in with her. Had some conversations. Explained my life a little. Then introduced the big changes when she was ready to accept that I had my life under control. I said I'd let you meet her. It didn't have to be the first time. I could have waited. But there's." Chuck breathes and cards his fingers through his hair so light - it feels so good his eyes nearly close. He reaches one hand up to press Chuck's hand to his face, small and sun-warmed. "There's this driving urge I have to show you to everyone like, _This is Sam and he's fucking remarkable in ways I'm not even allowed to tell you about._ It's showing you off and proving that even random people can come to love you and showing the whole world what you're worth and just _wishing_ I could make everyone know. Make everyone thank you. But I have to just live with you under the radar. My family treated deep things, personal things, like they were jokes to be publicly ridiculed all the time. They have _their pride_ and they all worked hard to be so educated and get to where they are. When people have hiccups in their lives that keep them from being accomplished and having forward momentum, that's laughable to them. And everything that I am is pretty much considered a weakness. _Difference_ is a weakness. Exposing someone so fucking fantastic and unique to their ridicule? Sam, I'm the one who's sorry. I'm the one who screwed up. You have nothing to be sorry for. You've only ever been," he swallows and says the words low, "a supportive husband. You did everything right."

Sam folds over and hugs him tight. "What kind of adult has to be eased into meeting somebody? She shouldn't need her hand held, Chuck. Now I'm only worried- did Charlie make sure that call was _really_ safe to make? You really think that will handle things?"

"It'll confuse them. It will straighten out this issue. They'll all badger Betty about it for a while but then she'll convince herself it was too absurd to be true. She'll convince herself she got conned and they'll all get to feel sorry for themselves that I'm really dead and have a few drinks after church or something and they'll forget about it again in a month."

A waste, then. The whole thing was a waste of time. Made them both feel like hell. And to no point at all except now the feds have a lead to follow to Denver. That coffee shop only had a camera on the register but he's still gonna have to cancel his post office box. And they're going to have to be careful that Chuck doesn't show up on many cameras over the next year.

A waste.

But.  
A waste because Chuck wanted to tell his sister, _Here is my husband. I love him and I'm proud of him and I wish I could tell you why_.

Maybe not a total waste.

The credit for being a good spouse tastes a little sour in his mouth. But that just gets crushed -- completely obliterated by the knowledge that Chuck wanted him in on this. Wanted to show Sam off as a piece of his life-complete.

Maybe not a waste.  
Maybe an image, solidified, of exactly what Chuck considers his family to be.

_Who_ he considers his family. The ones who respect his voice, defend him, welcome his company, want to hug him even if hugging isn't his thing.

Maybe not a waste. Maybe Chuck still showed Sam exactly who his brothers and sisters really are.

«»

The next day, Sam goes with Dean on a run to visit some building supply place that's going out of business. He hopes they can get some stuff cheap. They take the truck and Dean comments that he likes how it drives.

Sam frowns. "Idea. Can you take it for a few days? Let me and Chuck have the Impala. Kind of a... vacation for a week or so?" When Dean inevitably balks a bit, he amends, "Call it boot camp. I want Chuck to try out all the guns in the trunk. See which fits him best. I know he's capable with certain things, but he'll use... well. Us. To filter his experience through to actually _use_ stuff and it means, like. He's not prepared to take a hit properly, that kinda thing. Because he's measuring it by a bigger body. I could just get him some more field experience. Go to the desert, fire off a bunch of guns. If we've gotta be watching our backs a little more, now, then he should probably be better armed. Or more used to- you know," he leaves off.

Dean considers this. "I doubt he's gonna consider that a fabulous vacay. You know, I wasn't wrong about the blade. He handles it pretty well."

"No, I know. You were totally right about that. I just. Guns are fast. Far away. He doesn't come close to his target. If it's an issue of fear in handling them, I need to get him over that. He may still be good with a blade, but if he can be good with a gun, I'd rather he didn't have to fight up close."

"Going to the desert, though?" Dean sort of 'bleh's. "There's Montana. The cabin? Nobody gives a shit about firing off rounds in fucking Montana. Shit - it's encouraged."

Yeah. They don't really do the desert.

"Plus, you know. Laying low. Keeping off the radar, like you said. Don't have to pay a fee to stay at Rufus's old place."

He shifts on the seat a little. His only objection to that is how it might pull up memories, depending how much Chuck saw of Rufus's life. But there is less a chance they'll get caught on camera up there.

"Regardless, I mean. Yeah. You can take Baby for a few days. Hopefully we'll hit paydirt here, me and Cas can go drop this stuff off up north. He can move a few of the heavy things around for us. We'll visit Jody," he shrugs. "Trade off for a week."

«»

Chuck breathes and steadies himself.  
His next shot is as centered as all the rest.

Chuck played video games as much as Charlie. Still does, when he has access and time on his hands. But his shooting is probably on-point for other reasons.

Sam switches the gun to auto. Chuck switches it back, shaking his head. He aims down and keeps away from the trigger. Pulls his headphones off.

"Anybody can go full-auto wild. I don't actually enjoy this enough to be just shooting all crazy."

He absolutely, positively refuses to have fun with guns.

The way Chuck handles them is nothing but respect. But he gives the gun too much control that way, which is central to the issue.

"You need to know how it kicks back."

"I really don't. I know how this gun kicks back already."

"Not on auto."

"I'm never in my life gonna turn a gun to auto by choice."

"What if you're handed one in a panic zombie apocalypse situation and you only have time to start firing?"

Chuck's jaw clicks. "Then I'm not gonna be an idiot and waste ammo. I'll slow down and go for headshots."

Ha! "Headshots don't actually put zombies down!"

"And full-auto isn't nailing someone back into their gravebed!!"

Fucking got him on that one. He shrugs. "Try it for two seconds. That's all. You have to. I'm saying you have to," he flat-out declares.

Chuck growls and turns back and puts his headphones back on. Switches it to auto, aims--

Hesitates. Switches to his right. Gets a better stance.

And fires.

He takes out two of the smaller trees beyond the target.

Probably had to switch to seeing things through Dean to even tolerate doing so.

His shoulders fall when he's done. He shakes his head and checks and safeties and hands the gun over.

"You really hated that," Sam observes.

"I really hate all of this."

Wow.  
Sam's never seen him do the confrontation-stance-and-sneer before.

Okay. They're done for the day. He kind of likes his record of not actually having real couple fights. "We'll do the last of them tomorrow."

Chuck goes from looking mad to looking defeated.

Goddamnit. He sets everything aside and takes Chuck's headphones off, sets them aside, too.

"You need to know what this is like. I didn't make you study to use your blade with Cas. I _need you_ to be at least a little familiar with any of the guns you'd have access to. I need you to not get knocked on your ass by them. I'm sorry but if you have to look through Dean to do this, you need to know how to do that in an instant and not lose your footing or shoot wild."

Chuck's arms drop and he sighs.

"Whatever. Can we be on vacation for the rest of the day at least?"

Sam nods. Definitely. "Keep the SIG on you and go back inside. I'll pack all this away and come meet you," he puts his hand to Chuck's back and hands the gun over.

"I don't like just carrying like this. It reminds me of Mad Eye walking around telling tiny witches and wizards they'll blast their asses off if they keep their wands in their back pockets."

"I can get you a holster."

"No."

"One you can put under your jacket-"

"No."

"Yes," he presses a kiss to his head. "I'll meet you back inside."

"I'm showering. Leave me alone," he gripes.

"Okay. I'm sorry."

"You're not."

"I need--" he huffs. "We have to. This is how it is. This is just how it is and you know that and if I can't know that you can handle a gun when it's handed to you-"

"I don't wanna make you more anxious, believe me, but you're waiting for me to _enjoy it_ like you're showing me your favorite toys and I can't, Sam. _I can't_. I'm not gonna grow to love this. I will do it and I can try to do it well and I can tolerate it but I'm not the guy who's gonna fire off five hundred rounds for shits and grins. I'm sorry. This isn't fun for me."

Sam shifts. "I didn't say it had to be."

"I can't-- goddamnit." Chuck stops and sighs. Drops his head and looks up again. "Don't laugh at me."

"I'm not laughing-"

Chuck turns and chooses a shotgun and moves around him. Gets to a tree stump, stoops, and aims.

Sam's confused but he keeps still and quiet. He doesn't know what kind of point Chuck's trying to make.

He fires off one shot and there's a faraway rustle and he breathes and looks up. Comes back to hand over the gun and turns back to where he shot.

Sam shoulders the strap and follows.

Back in a small clearing Sam didn't even know was there, Chuck comes to a stoop over-

The body of a wild turkey.

The head is pretty well gone. There are tracks and feathers leading away. The others scattered.

Sam is going to have to sort out his conflicting emotions in a few minutes. He blinks and gathers himself and helps Chuck haul the dead weight back to the cabin.

He goes for the back door but Chuck stops him on the porch, wiping his brow. "Nah, here's good. Gotta pluck it. And. You know." He motions. "The blood and guts-- uh. Nevermind. You don't know," he waves him off.

"And you _do??_ "

"You can thank Bobby for dinner. Go get your stuff back in the car and then look up a recipe online. I'm not sure about that part."

Sam blinks again.  
Leaves him to it.

He's locking up the car when he decides that, yes, actually, he _is_ turned on. Yes, actually, Chuck just proved he knows what he's doing. Yes, actually, he's going to brag about this to his brother and rub it right in his face. Yes, actually, he's getting Chuck the damn shoulder holster and making him wear it naked at least once. Yes, actually, he's gonna strap Chuck up with a BFG on occasion just to make people nervous.

And, yeah. He can respect the fact that Chuck doesn't like the guns.

He feels like he got schooled and he's fine with it.

Him and Dean were never comfortable with hunting game; they just had to be alright with the necessities of The Job.

Since learning it was all real, Chuck's had to square with more of the facts of life than Sam and Dean have.

He could help defend the family. He could feed them. He could heal them. He could teach them. He could fucking fight them if he was forced to. He'd have a fair chance of winning.

He's amazing. Sam just thinks he's amazing.

Sam kind of wants to go back in there and push him down with his dirty-bloody hands and sweaty body and grouchy mood and worship all the soft edges of his body and beg to get bowled over by a big push of thoughts from across the bind-- just have Chuck give him access to his incredible brain.

He has to... adjust himself. And take a deep, cooling breath. And dial Dean up on the phone. He walks six yards toward the road to get a better signal.

"Yo."

"I know your husband can burn demons out and everything but mine is feeding me tonight."

"Anybody can stop at a McDonald's, Sammy."

"I made him practice guns. And he hates it. And he's complaining about it and he turns around like 'hold on for a sec' and he just shoots this fucking turkey out of the woods and he's gutting it right now. I'm not even shitting you."

He hears Dean clatter ice in a tumbler on the other end. He's silent for a long minute.

"Mine's prettier," he tries.

"He's really not," Sam scoffs. "He's great and everything but he has the emotional range of a house cat."

"I'm hanging up on your ignorant ass. Enjoy your wild turkey, bitch."

"Enjoy your Wild Turkey, jerk."

They hang up.

«»

They butcher and fridge most the bird because they don't really have enough food or ingredients in the cabin to prepare it properly. They YouTube how to cook it up right, make a list of stuff they need, and decide to trek out to the store later.

There's a rickety old tub and it works better than the shower. He asks, "So. Are you gonna take a bath?"

You know.  
 _Hoping_.

And Chuck just says, "No." And locks him out of the fucking bathroom and starts the water.

Sam's heart really drops.

Alright. Maybe he pushed it with the guns. It's been a few days of making Chuck do this. They've gone through so much of the stuff in the trunk. He indulged, at first, in standing surrounding Chuck and correcting his stance and hold when it didn't need correcting and treated him as a novice, which.

He _should be_. But he really isn't.

You could say that Chuck doesn't have hands-on experience, but maybe it's not that simple and maybe it isn't accurate within the scope of Chuck's life.

First of all, he doesn't just have access to a five-year chunk of hunting and chaos. He saw everything. He saw back to Bobby's youth, hunting and trapping, Dad's tour of duty in the Marines, all of Dean's life, all of Sam's life, probably more of Mom's life than he's willing to discuss. He knew of the Campbells' existence, and, to top it off, he's seen angel battles, wars, so much of history and tactics.

He didn't just _see_ all of this, either. Some of it was kick-your-ass vivid. The only reason he stands inside Dean's head when he's holding a gun is because it's what he's _used to_. He can _feel_ a gun properly when he remembers Dean.

It is a kind of experience. Chuck really knows what he's doing.

It's a little hard to let him tug away. A little hard for Sam to accept that he doesn't need the help or the hand-holding.

That's maybe a protective thing and he has to get over it if he intends to put guns in Chuck's hands, regardless.

It worries him while it makes him sad at the same time. Chuck shouldn't have all that weight on his brain. And he shouldn't have to have Sam doubting him to his face.

Sam swings by the door twice, hesitating. Comes back a third time and knocks loud. It doesn't sound like he's got the shower working right yet.

He's about to ask, 'Do you need help?' but Chuck remembered where the fucking spoons were in this cabin and not even Sam remembered that. He obviously doesn't need help operating the damn thing.

He doesn't need Sam's help with a lot of stuff.

God, that feels crappy.

Maybe a bigger part of him than he wanted to admit was really looking forward to drawing his little crab out of his comfort zone. And Chuck's comfort zone is just bigger than he gives a shit to admit.

So the water stops at his knock and he just says through the door, "I'm seriously sorry. I'm sorry."

There's a long quiet and he sighs, ready to turn, but the door unlocks. He pauses, not sure if that's what he really heard or if it was shuffling...

He tests the nob. It turns. "Can I come in?"

"Yeah."

Chuck is settling in the tub when he peeks.

"Can I come in?" he repeats.

"Yeah," Chuck says again. "You. I mean. You should come in, too, if you want."

Of course he _wants_.

He strips and lets his stuff fall on top of the clothes already there. Chuck budges up to one side and lets him step in. Then he turns to get more hot water in the bath as Sam settles.

There's a long moment of noise and then Chuck cuts it and turns and.

Sam loses his breath. All of it.

This is the real reason Chuck feels like shit.

Yes, he's handling the kickback. No, he wasn't _built_ to handle the kickback on all those guns.

Son of a bitch. "Get over here," Sam rasps.

He makes as much room as he can so Chuck can sink up to his neck in the warm water.

There's bruising all over him and the fact that Sam didn't put it there on purpose kicks the self-loathing back up to 11.

Chuck knows what he can handle and he doesn't want to.

Message received. No more of this bullshit.

Just because he can, doesn't mean he wants to. Just because he can, doesn't mean he should.

Only in emergency circumstances. Only at the most necessary moments.

It's not like he should be training Chuck how to handle himself on a hunt, anyway. They should keep moving back away from the hunts. They shouldn't be getting in deeper.

Sam wraps around him and holds warm hands solid over his shoulders.

"No more guns. Promise. You only have to handle guns if _you_ feel like there's no other option. I should trust you with yourself on this. I fucked up. I'm just. I really, really apologize."

"It's okay. You're okay."

"You're not."

"I'll be fine in a few days."

"I'm starting to think I did this for all the wrong reasons. Maybe I thought some bullshit like it would be sexy to stand with my hands around yours while we pulled the trigger together or something. But you don't have fun with guns. And it's not sexy when you're beat to hell because I pushed you."

"I need to be pushed sometimes."

"I'm not gonna be the one to do it, then. Not unless you ask. This is not okay."

Chuck cuddles under his chin anyway. "I'll live. I don't have to fire anymore guns. My ears thank you. My elbows thank you. My arms-"

"I should have fucking listened," he shakes his head.

"You're getting some awesome food out of it, at least. It's gonna be fun. We'll have off-season Thanksgiving."

Chuck dozes against him in the warm, tight space. He doesn't dare move, just tries to help by radiating body heat into him. Chuck raises a hand, lazy and dripping, to run over his arm, tracing veins. Sam settles him tighter, and hums, sways, until he can sleep for a little while.

The bind sits open and easy between them now. Warmer than the water and just as soft and surrounding.

It's abstract and he wishes it were more. He doesn't want that feeling to cross over to Chuck, but, at this point, he'd be grateful if something like that did make the miles across.

It feels far.

He really didn't think it would be-- he figured it would be closer. More encompassing.

He just thought it would be different. Intense. He catches himself being bummed about it again, but the impatience has faded. Unfortunately, he's kind of settling into the idea of what it is. He doesn't have to be happy about it, but at least he has this. He can enjoy all that his husband is still capable of doing for him.

Maybe he just wanted, so deeply, to be able to share more with a living soul. Sam expected fantastic things that just weren't possible.

He envies the few cool tricks Chuck can do. The way he pushes close sometimes and is really able to project close-close-super-good waves across it. Sam wanted to pick up tricks and emulate that but. He's just not managing.

The bind is soft and airy right now. He noticed that things go a little more lax when they're asleep. It kind of makes sense, if the spiritual nature of it is considered. Spirit walking, for example, is done by putting bodies into a seriously deep sleep. It eases the spirit's ability to move between planes.

So he tries something now, since he's concentrating on it, anyway.

He gathers a giant, heaping swell of pride from the center of himself and pulls it up like a great big bowling ball and tries to wedge it over. Big thoughts full of Chuck's stark bruises and how he took every single one like a trooper. How he didn't complain about the aches - just the guns themselves. How he has good reasons for feeling the way he does and Sam envies his conviction and his ability to use the blade perfectly well so far.

His pride in having Chuck by his side. In standing next to someone who's chosen him as family above all others. Having him there to both fight beside, and to put the weapons down.

Chuck is silent and unmoving until he pulls one arm out of the water and hooks it behind himself, around the back of Sam's neck.

Like he does when he knows Sam has to pull out of him, but he doesn't want him to.  
Sam shivers in recognition.

"Oh," he breathes. "Oh, Sam."

Sam kisses at the back of his neck, back of his head. Noses at the day-worn smell in his hair.

"You're wondering if I felt that. I felt that," Chuck answers what he doesn't ask.

"I love your body. I can't believe I did this to it without asking."

"I'm okay. I just feel like I've been exercising. I know you know how I feel about that," he adds, wry, "but I'm fine. I promise I'm okay. I know you need to hear that. I'm fine. I just wasn't built to do that over an extended period of time. Maybe you're right and I need to get better at it just in case."

"No. No, not at all," he dips to kiss down to where the water sits against him. "I'll protect you. You don't have to."

"We both know some kind of very _real_ apocalypse is one bad demon deal away," he whispers.

"If you want to train for that, I'll train you for that. Or you can climb my back more often and I can get used to the weight of you and you can trust me to always save you and I can always trust you to be smarter and think ten steps ahead of the bad guys."

"See, there's being proud of me and then there's _hubris_ and I'm not comfortable with that part. Smart I can do. Ten steps ahead? Not so much. Maybe once upon a time, but not now." Chuck sighs a ripple across the water. "I know better. I should want to learn. But I don't. I want to be at home and safe with you. Smart but not _that_ smart."

He wants to carry Chuck. He doesn't want these looming things to sit in Chuck's lap. It's not hard to let it go, to not push him. To leave the rest of the weapons in the trunk. To trust them to stay alive together.

Chuck turns to kiss him and draw him down and... pet his nose with the flat of his hand.

Sam blinks his eyes open.

"I swear I'm not being silly. I just forgot all this time to give love to the nose," he says simply.

And so they sit, two total doofs, lopsided sizes of them in the water, petting each other's noses and humming songs they only half-remember.


	8. far enough wasn't far enough

Sam wakes up sweating buckets, pressed gross and slick all against Chuck's back, both their shirts soaked through and shorts clinging to their legs.

He kicks off the covers and it's basically no relief. The room is almost as hot as he is.

Sam lets go of Chuck to lay back and away and twist his rings on his finger as if the sigils in the engagement ring are what's stopped working.

He knows what it really is. He knows it's the damn A/C.  
Again.

He flops there, hot and frustrated and unwilling to deal with this. It's hot enough that Chuck will wake up soon, too, sweating and uncomfortable. He's got maybe twenty minutes to get a fan in here.

Then will come the waking and the griping and the glaring.

And Chuck being right about everything.

Which, okay, _he knows_ already, but it's a thousand times worse than a standard "I told you so" because 1- he doesn't _say it out loud_ , he just glares, and 2- Sam is utterly aware that Chuck saw this coming as clearly as if he read it on a page out of his own books.

Sam rolls out of bed to go get the oscillating fan that Chuck bought the first time the air went out. Maybe if he angles it directly at the bed, it will give Chuck another hour of sleep and give Sam an hour to figure this out before Chuck is sneaking up behind him and dumping ice cubes down the back of his pants.

Look: he's building an entire fucking house from scratch. He should be able to handle the A/C in their dinky apartment.

The fan, firing full blast, makes Chuck frown and turn his face away in his sleep, but he doesn't wake up.

Sam climbs a chair and gets at the duct. Unscrews the thermostat from the wall. Goes through all the steps that worked the times before. Fiddles with everything he can reach. Finally, he's forced to follow the ducts out and to the hall and--

Shit.

He calls Dean.

"Geeze. I was just thinking about you," he says all wondering, like they don't talk to each other _constantly_.

"That's because I needed you to be awake. I'm dealing with the A/C again."

"For fuck's sake, Sammy. It's time to give in and call a-"

"You know it doesn't comfort me that you're building my house and you can't help me fix this. What the fuck is my HVAC gonna look like if you put it in without knowing what you're doing?"

"I will be doing the bulk of the work _with a professional_. Because I know my limits."

"Pshh. No you don't," he automatically scoffs.

Dean hangs up on him.

When Sam calls again, Dean doesn't answer, only texts back. **Proof that I know my limits.**

Sam conks his head against the wall.

He hears the water running through the pipes.

Chuck is up.

Sam goes back to their room.

Chuck comes out of the bathroom frowny and dripping. He's dumped handfuls of water over his head. Sam intercepts him and turns him back around. "I'll get fresh clothes for you. Take a nice, cold shower. Then go get us Starbucks while I work on the problem." He pulls Chuck's shirt off over his head and scoops up his chin to kiss him. "'Morning, sweetheart. I promise I'll fix this."

He grumbles but he goes.

Sam gets his clothes for him and shoves twenties and a couple cards in his wallet and has everything waiting for when he gets out. Chilled and awake, yes, but, unfortunately, more aware of the situation.

"Call the super," he demands, accepting new underwear from Sam.

"I already fussed with the system before. They'll know and they'll-"

"I don't care. Bust it back to its original busted state. Put bullets in it, I don't care," he repeats.

Sam sets his jaw. "I put more money in here," he hands the wallet over. "I love you. Buy a window unit if you have to."

"They think they're all bougie here, we'll get in trouble for that hanging out over-"

"I don't care! If they won't fix it-"

"We don't know if they won't fix it because you won't ask!!" his voice goes shrill.

"Okay! Calm down, I just-"

Chuck pulls a receipt out of his wallet, balls it up and throws it at Sam's face. Then crams the wallet in his pocket and grabs the keys and Sam's tablet on his way out.

Sam isn't supposed to tell him to _calm down_. So that's strike two. Great way to start off the morning.

He sweats through his clothes before opening the windows strategically to try to create a crossbreeze with the help of the fan.

There isn't much of a breeze outside today - that's his main problem. He blows his hair out of his face and keeps at it.

Two fucking hours go by and his phone doesn't make a peep. So Chuck is out enjoying the coffee shop's A/C or maybe even seeing a damn movie on his own and Sam has to crack open a soda to get his caffeine for the morning.

He throws his shirt off, tosses water on his head, and picks up the tools to keep trying.

Until his hand slips, slick with sweat, and he puts the screwdriver straight through the panel.

Holy shit.

The text tone that pings is the one he only uses for Chuck.

He doesn't go get his phone to look at it. He puts everything back in place except for a few wires. Grabs a lighter and carefully burns through them, sets them at an odd angle against another part so it looks like it overheated and killed the whole system.

He peels one of the warning labels off the panel and moves it down, over the hole he made, and hopes no one thinks twice about it. A corner of the sticker rolls up and he sticks it back on with fucking glue. Holds it in place until it dries.

Okay. Alright.

He climbs down and gets his phone.

The text is a half hour old by now. **Did you call yet?**

He makes the call first so that he can report _yes, I did_ , like a good husband.

Goddamnit.

Just as he thought, they won't even make it to the damn apartment until sometime tomorrow afternoon. He slumps into a kitchen chair, defeated.

What it means is that he'll have to stay here until they knock. Someone has to be there to let the repair guys in or they've gotta pull the muffliato lock off the front door and reinstall the one that the super actually has keys to.

He scrubs his hand into his sweaty hair and finally dials.

"Did you call them yet?" Chuck answers.

"Yes."

"Okay. What do you want me to pick up for lunch?"

"Uh. I'll um. I'll get dressed and meet you downstairs. Just pick me up and we'll go someplace."

"Okay. I'm still like twenty minutes out."

"Good, I gotta shower. I stink."

"Your stink isn't a bad stink," Chuck allows.

"I'm thinking the stench of defeat lends a little sourness, though."

Chuck fucking hangs up on him.

Yeah. He shouldn't be complaining about his own fucking stubbornness leading to all this.

He waits outside with his hair wet, keeping his head cool in the relatively tolerable heat where cars can whoosh by and throw the occasional breeze at him. Then climbs up to the passenger seat when Chuck comes back around.

"When will they be-"

"Tomorrow," Sam admits. "I'm sorry."

Chuck doesn't accept the apology for once. "We're going to a sit-down restaurant and eating slow and having dessert and tipping well. It's not like we're in a hurry."

"I'll take you out for an ice cream date," Sam says and it comes out kinda pathetic.

Chuck ignores that, too, and just drives.

«»

He is silent and neutral on the other side of the table, across from Sam, all through their meal. Their waitress isn't too cheery and they have to ask for a dessert menu when she doesn't offer one. Then it takes her forever to show up again.

About par for the course on a day like this.

Sam accidentally kicks him under the table while he's just shifting to sit differently.

Chuck looks up at him so he grabs for the opening, even if he wasn't planning to. "I'm sorry. I broke it worse than it was before. Hopefully they'll overhaul it or whatever. Fix all the different parts and keep testing it until it works."

He nods. "Okay."

"I'm _sorry_ ," he insists when the blankness doesn't go away.

"Okay," Chuck says again, shaking his head and just looking like, _whatever_.  
Then sighs.

"Okay- I mean," he closes his eyes and shakes his head. "I mean it's okay. You were just. You were trying to fix it. That's all."

They're quiet for a while. Sam reaches for his hand. Says, "Thanks."

"Trying to fix it _fiiiive tiiiimes_ ," Chuck says when he finally meets his eyes.

"I'M SORRY!! I said I was SORRY-"

"And after I asked you to call the second time you were sorry but then there was a third time. And the third time and the fourth time and the fifth time you were sorry but you didn't-"

"I _fixed_ it those times and I _told you_ I was sorry and I-"

"AND YOU DIDN'T HAVE TO APOLOGIZE FIVE FUCKING TIMES you could have just MADE THE CALL-"

"But we've fucked with _everything_ in the apartment-"

"YOU'VE fucked with everything in the apartment. YOU fixed the sink and the ceiling fan and the A/C and-"

"Muffliato which is for BOTH of us-" Sam objects

"And how long, exactly, is it really going to take for them to show up, above and beyond the time they said, huh?" Chuck narrows his eyes. "And what if they need to replace a part? Am I supposed to sit in that apartment with you frying my fucking brain in the heat for two weeks? Or will you take the muffliato off the damn door so we can go to the bunker and they can handle it?"

"They can- we can- it's just a-" he stutters.

"Are you fucking about to tell me you won't change the stupid lock back so we don't have to sit in the stupid fucking apartment and- you know what." Chuck pulls his wallet out and throws three twenties on the table and scoots out of the booth and Sam watches until he realizes he really is leaving and then scrambles after.

Chuck just pushes out the front door and to the parking lot and Sam follows after him like he's in pursuit, like they're not heading to the same damn vehicle. "If it's just two days we can hang around most the time outside the apartment, sleep at a motel tonight, and I'll just go back at the appointment time," he bites out.

Chuck goes and climbs up, himself, keys in, and gets back in the driver's seat. He unlocks the passenger door which, for some reason, Sam kinda wasn't expecting.

But Chuck wouldn't just _leave him here_.

"Or you can refuse to change the lock and lay in the bed you've made and I can go down to the bunker and sleep in a familiar place where the goddamn air works and you can deal with whenever they fix the fucking thing. I mean you waited three months, through five different repair jobs, what's a sixth, right?" he fires back and it's snotty and it's mean and it actually.

It actually hits Sam right in the chest.

From that point it's just kind of a weird, long, quiet drive.

They get back to the apartment and sit in the truck for a minute before Chuck cuts the car off and hands the keys back. Gets out and climbs down.

He goes to the building but he waits in the shade of the stairwell.

Sam follows. Hunched and like. Winded or something. He doesn't feel like he's breathing right.

Chuck doesn't proceed up the stairs. "What did Dean say when you called and asked him for help?"

Because Chuck knows Sam called and asked him for help.

Each of the five-- six. Each of the _six_ times, now.

Because Chuck knows Sam called his brother for help and Chuck knows, without really having to ask, that Dean helped the first two times and the third time he said he wasn't sure he could be useful and the fourth time he said to give up and call the professionals.

Since Dean, himself, is a professional at something and he _hates it_ when people try to do his job and they do it wrong.

Chuck doesn't need to ask to know what Dean said.  
That's not actually what he's asking at all.

Sam holds the keys back out. "I'll go get you a couple bags of stuff. You'll feel better in the bunker and just. Tell me you'll drive careful, okay?"

Chuck sighs. Presses his hand down. "What did he say?" Chuck asks again.

"He told me I probably couldn't fix it myself. He told me to call the super."

"When?"

Sam sighs this time. "He suggested it the second time. The third time he told me to. The fourth he lectured me..."

"And this morning?"

"He hung up on me."

Chuck nods. Looks everywhere but at Sam.

"You don't have to go back into that oven. I'll bring your stuff down. I-"

Chuck starts walking upstairs.

Sam opens up the windows first but then he puts Chuck's bathroom stuff into a manageable little pile. Chuck is still taking his shoes off and trying to find a lighter shirt but.

But he's not packing anything. And Sam doesn't know if he's supposed to be doing it or-

If he wants to go, Sam would much rather he be allowed to pack Chuck's things. Just so that it doesn't feel like-

"I'm stubborn. And I'm sorry."

Chuck shakes his head and repositions the fan and just lies back on the bed.

"I'll take the muffliato off so whenever-"

"Stop. Sam. Stop. It's my bed, too. I didn't want you to think I didn't believe in your skills so. I let this happen three more times than it absolutely should have. I could have called them myself. I didn't. It's my bed, too. I'll lie in it." He lifts his head, "You're going on Slurpee runs but I'll stay. It's not completely fucking intolerable. I don't wanna be in a motel right now."

"You can be in the bunker," he offers one more time, feeling wounded.

Chuck rolls his eyes and stretches and falls back across the sheets. "Take off your shirt. I get to watch you sweat."

Sam kicks off his shoes and snaps the bathroom light off. He tosses his shirt and lies down.

"Ugh. And you're a fucking furnace."

"They have to let us have a window unit if they won't be here for more than a day. Let's go buy more fans and a window unit."

Chuck sits up to look around them. "I honestly think our windows are too wide for those."

"We can make it work."

Chuck laughs. "We can make anything work. But we kinda have to _facilitate_ that by-"

"OKAY. GOD. I'M FUCKING SORRY. I'M REALLY FUCKING SORRY. I was working outside the bounds of my experience and I'm sorry. I fucked up. I can't fix it. I fucked up. I'm sorry," he just keeps repeating until Chuck slaps a hand over his mouth.

Then he shakes out his sweaty-sticky hand and they keep to their far sides of the bed for a while.

Chuck's got shorts on. And his shirt rides up. And it shouldn't make Sam want him when Chuck's mad and Sam's _sorry_ and it's boiling hot. But he's thrown wide, as much space as his little self takes up. It lands his fingers on Sam's arm and nothing else.

Chuck's just normally so covered up. He only loses layers during the summer.

Sam knows he's too hot to-

Chuck turns to him and climbs to him and gets on top of him. Handles his head and kisses him.

"You said my words mean a lot to you. But you wouldn't call, not even after the third time I asked."

Sam closes his eyes. Sighs. "You are important. Your words are important. I wasn't-- or I didn't _mean to_ ignore you. You're right. You asked me to. I didn't listen. You didn't say more because you... I donno. Thought I knew what I was doing or wanted to let me feel useful in my own home." He opens his eyes. "I get it. _Please_." He actually needs Chuck to fully accept his apology. He can't stand being tense and sad around him. He can't stand being a disappointment.

"You try so hard," Chuck skims gentle thumbs over his ears. "I know you do. And I want you to keep trying. But I also want you to ask for help when you need it. If you can't recognize when you need help, let me tell you without assuming I'm just doubting your mad skills. Okay honey?" he whispers.

Oh god. "I don't deserve you."

"Please don't start that shit," Chuck hates going back and forth on who feels less deserving. Sometimes it overwhelms him, feeling that way, too, but lately he's just... over it. He just wants them to belong together.

Sam leans up to kiss him and he accepts it and that's all that matters.

«»

They have to escape after another two hours. The air is too stuffy and Sam has to open the bananas and throw bits to the birds because they were basically melting on the counter.

The window unit they buy only fits the slimmer window in the main room. It cools a good 8-foot space around it and so they make sure it's stable and close all the blinds to keep as much heat as possible out of the rest of the apartment.

They pull the mattress up and drag it out to the main room, park it on the carpet directly next to the unit, and Chuck is tired and worn so they take a short, fidgety nap.

Sam holds him close, assuming that they'll be cooled down as they sleep, but the heat is persistent.

He tries to let Chuck sleep away from him, but he wakes up and grouches and presses back up against Sam, anyway.

He wakes up long before his alarm. Sighs and turns to face Sam.

"Mission: Failed."

"Yeah," Sam frowns.

"We're just gonna have to be exhausted next time."

"We can sleep at a motel tonight-"

"I really, _really_ don't want to. For some reason I just. When I have a chance to be home, I don't wanna be in a motel down the road. We deal with enough of that shit when we go north. Or go hunt."

They go out for dinner. They get ice cream, too, and then hit up the shopping center again to buy one of those tower fans to move more of the air around.

Chuck tosses and turns a lot in the night. They try to get some breathing room between them but, to do that, Chuck sprawls on his back. It makes him snore and his back is the part of his body that makes him overheat if he doesn't turn his spine to the cool of the fans blowing. 

Sam is overheating because of his neck. Chuck wakes up to find him with his hair pulled back and blinks a few times.

"It's hard to handle you with fake-short hair."

It's 3 a.m. "This isn't working."

"It's working well enough. Listen, Sam. If they have to order parts or if it takes longer than just tomorrow to get it fixed, we'll change the lock and go down to the bunker and let them fix it."

He really doesn't want to go to a motel.

"We can sleep in the truck bed," Sam offers.

Chuck scoots close again and pulls his hair tie. Sweeps all his pieces up and ties his hair again so it's less messy.

"Thank you."

"I wasn't mad at you. I wasn't angry, I was frustrated with the whole thing and with both of us. You know that, right?" He suddenly asks, earnest. "I don't get angry with you. I get a little annoyed sometimes but it's rare. It's very fucking rare. I promise I wasn't angry." He reaches over and grabs the water bottle on the floor past Sam. It was a block of ice when they went to bed and now it's just a long hunk bobbing around in water. He moves Sam's pillow and nestles the cold bottle behind Sam's neck.

It truly feels amazing.

"I just thought you'd give in sooner but you kept fixing it and I guess I kept hoping it would be that simple. I wasn't angry," he repeats.

"I know," and he really does. He knows he's stubborn and he knows that doesn't always come at the best time.

"I wanna keep trying. Stay right where you are," he requests, and moves back into Sam's arms.

Sam lifts the back of Chuck's shirt and only holds him by the waist so his spine can be cooled by the fans.

Chuck keeps looking up and kissing him. He kisses up Sam's neck, up to his chin. Sam looks down to meet his mouth and Chuck will start again when Sam settles.

Sam tries to settle him down for sleep but he keeps kissing.

"I know," Sam says. "It's okay. I know you weren't mad. You don't have to let me off the hook, anyway."

"Okay." Chuck kisses him again, though. "No way am I having overheated sex with you when I could be sleeping."

Sure, he says that, but he does it while pushing Sam's shirt up his torso.

And spends a whole ten minutes getting Sam worked up by licking the sweat off of him.

It's not any cooler waking up naked in the morning, stuck together by their skin, hot and gross. They thought it would be, and passed out gladly after Chuck's shenanigans, insisting the whole time they shouldn't be doing this to themselves.

But it is cooler in the shower. Sam feels really guilty about the amount of water they waste but at least they waste it together.

«»

Sam's repairs were temporary fixes for larger problems. Thankfully, a few other units had been having the same problems with their central air so spare parts had already been ordered and are on hand. They just have to be retrieved from a central office.

It gives them a two-hour window to escape again, for dinner.

They don't even fuck around - they just have the ice cream date for supper. Neither of them see much use in acting like adults in this situation.

Chuck broke into minor hysterics (that Sam attempted to stifle) when they marveled at just how hard the system had broken down.

He kept laughing at Sam. And then he laughed into his mouth in the car. And now all Sam wants is to hurry up and get their apartment back so he can pin his husband to the bed and cover _him_ with his tongue and insist, at the end, that he's still too hot and too tired to finish.

Chuck's eyes have been eating him alive all day.

He will literally do this. He swears it to himself. He will leave Chuck hanging, wanting. He'll do it for the laughing. He'll get a leg up on him. Tempt him in the morning and won't finish him off until he's begging. Until he remembers Sam is the one who really does it for him.

But the air doesn't turn back on after they've replaced the usual parts. And the repair guys have to come back in the morning to figure it out.

That means another hot night at home, restless but trying to stay cool. Another morning waking up with Chuck rolling out from under his arms, soaked and calling Sam his thermal blanket.

Sam blows him, first thing, before the birds are even singing outside.

He can't be blamed. The teasing was an okay plan until Chuck got mournful in the night and climbed back into his arms for kisses and more too-hot exhausted dozing.

Chuck can't give him up, even when he suffers for it.

The damn HVAC requires a few more fixes. It takes them until the third day to finally get the A/C up and running. He's so fucking grateful Chuck doesn't change his mind and head to Kansas.  
Sam can't really give him up, either.

«»

Dean came up with them, alone, this week. Cas is finishing up some training with Claire. Sam is, simultaneously, glad it’s just Dean, and desperately missing his brother-in-law as he waits, needing help to get out of the car and up to the motel room door. Dean doesn't say one word about how it takes an incredibly long time. There's a true solidarity about this kind of awful thing.

Dean gets a few steps forward and knocks. "Yo! Chuck!"

Chuck opens the door and blinks at them.

Dean clears his throat. "Uh. I didn't do it," pats him on the back and kind of hands Sam off.

Chuck's very concerned, now. He's come out of the room to help him inside, a hand around his elbow and keeping a slow pace with him.

Sam flails at the door to close it behind him. Then lets himself be helped over to the bed.

He can't help his groan sitting down.

Chuck sits next to him and wraps his arms around Sam carefully. Presses into his side and holds him. Strokes his back a little.

A whine comes up the back of Sam's throat and the pain is still just _radiating_.

"Yeah," his voice is strained, "uh, so. Construction accident. I got hit in the balls. Like. Really fucking hard."

"Oh my god." Chuck holds him tighter for a moment and then rises to the fridge. Gets a cold can of soda.

He takes it and puts it between his legs. It's not gonna be a lot of-- Well. You know. There's only so much you can do with a junk-hit that hard. He's just gonna have to deal with it.

Chuck wedges under his arm and holds him around his middle.

"You want painkillers or something?"

He shifts and a groan rocks out of him because _owww_. It was twenty minutes ago and he's still fucking _coiled_ inside.

"I'll deal with it. Just tell me you don't think any less of me right now because I'm not gonna be much use to you for a couple days."

"If your dick were the only thing useful about you, we wouldn't have come this far. I find that lying down in the fetal position is A-plus for these moments," he pushes at Sam's hair and palms the back of his head. "Lemme help you lay down."

He just clenches his eyes shut and nods.

Chuck gets him out of his shoes and jacket and pushes him to the side and babies him for a while. He kisses up and down Sam's face, tells him he's gonna be okay and encourages him to sleep it off. "I don't think less of you," he eventually adds, sounding guilty. "Just in case you were really wondering about that. I mean, _don't_ wonder about that, but just. Yeah. You'll work again. You'll be fine. It happens."

He doesn't even ask what idiot move Sam made to end up like this. He just takes care of Sam. Tells him everything he needs to hear.

"Okay!" he sounds freaked. Sam still has his eyes shut so he can't know for sure. "You're okay. Don't cry, Sam, please, you're okay. Do you want me to go get pills from Dean??" his hands are suddenly in Sam's hair again.

He doesn't realize he really is a mess until he sniffles and says, "Just stay here. This really hurts. I've hurt less getting _shot_."

"I know," he soothes and lets go only to climb in behind Sam and pick up his head and cradle him close.

"What kind of fucking child am I that-"

"Stop," Chuck kisses his ear. "You've been through this one too many times. I understand, okay? Why did the bad guys always end up nailing you so-- I just. I know, honey. I'm sorry. You'll be fine."

"Call me that again," he moans.

"Okay, honey. I love you," he whispers.

Sam loves his double-super-secret pet name. Chuck won't even acknowledge it exists until Sam's totally in distress and needs to be coddled.

"Do you want me to go get ice from the machine or do you need me to stay here right now?"

"I need you here. I _need you here_."

Chuck pulls the sheets up. "Okay." His hand drifts down to Sam's stomach. "It doesn't help for you to get yourself all knotted and tense. I know it feels like someone dug through your guts with a spoon." He rubs Sam's belly and... he just can't help it. It's sweet and the pain's still there but Chuck is here to fight it and Sam's eyes tear up again.

He feels like he was just leveled, gasping, gray-out, nerve-rending pain followed by the standard ball-hit paralysis, then the whole drive back and here and he's still whining about it. But Chuck's just ready to take care of him. Every little time he gets hurt, now, he turns around and there's his person. His Significant Other. Ready to help.

He sighs and shivers the tenseness loose a little. Chuck only _praises_ him for it. "Good, Sammy. Just calm down and sleep. Unwind, okay? I'm right here, honey. I'm so sorry you feel this way."

Sam has never in his life had somebody say this to him exactly when he needed to hear it. Oh, god. "I'm so fucking lucky I got you back," he slurs, falling asleep quickly, now, by the breath.

Chuck's hand comes to rest protectively over his lower belly. Hand wide, warm against the pulsing ache. "Not as lucky as I am. Shh," he hushes into Sam's hair until he doesn't know anything else of the waking world.

«»

The bubbles on the screensaver bounce different-colored lights around the motel room walls in the dark. The thumping of music from a bar down the block kicks up as it gets closer to ten.

There's a dull, dangerous throb if Sam shifts even a little bit. Like when you know your leg is gonna cramp up violently if you stand too fast. That won't happen, but it comes through his body like a warning that he's reluctant to challenge.

He feels pathetic but the fucking trickster never even had him nailed in the nads this hard. He wouldn't be surprised if he pisses blood.

Chuck breathes sleep against his neck and his hand is still draped down there. Sam presses it to his lower belly and moans. It's radiating body heat and comforting. He doesn't wanna move. He knows he's hungry but the thought of getting up to eat is... gross. Nausea still ready to leap back up his throat like it did at the initial hit.

Pathetic. Really pathetic.

He wishes Cas were here to zap him. _Seriously_.

Sam curves his back into Chuck and breathes through it for a while. Tries to hold real still.

He's almost startled out of it when Chuck says, "I'm gonna get a heavy-duty pain pill from Dean. You're gonna take it."

"I'm okay," he tries lying.

"I can tell. You're not cutting off my circulation in a death-grip at all."

Sam lets go of the fingers he was squishing.

"You think it's permanent damage?" he rubs his hand around again.

"No. I think it's just one too many times," he whines.

"You want me to kiss it better?"

He moans, desperately trying not to imagine it. "Don't do that right now."

"At least an aspirin. You have to let me do something," he reaches down to open Sam's pants. The relief of having his jeans open is unexpected. "Little better?"

"Oh god, please tell me I never have to wear pants again."

Chuck sighs into his neck. "Honey, I'm gonna touch you. Tell me if I hurt you. Don't move, okay?"

He settles and closes his eyes.  
Chuck gets his hand into Sam's shorts and doesn't go too low, just presses warm and gentle. The exact opposite of the first kidney-ripping pain.

It feels so good his eyes tear up again. "Please just stay there? Please?"

Chuck kisses his head. His thumb moves a little but it's gentle. Then he moves back some and pulls Sam to lay against him more.

He falls back to sleep that way.

«»

It doesn't freak him when he wakes up with a hand down his pants.

He did tell Chuck to stay there. It's just the first time he's woken up in a compromising position in their entire relationship and he feels like he _ought to_ be more freaked out than he is.

But all Chuck's hand is doing is caring for him. Like, he's not even doing anything. It's just his hand resting there, banded in Sam's boxers, keeping him somewhat shielded and safe.

It's actually amazing. More-so for the fact that he's happy he trusted Chuck with this. Happy that he doesn't feel violated, but healing. It won't hurt nearly as much after the hours of rest. It's just- sometimes it's a pretty raw pain that he ends up carrying around for a couple days.

He's still not looking forward to actually standing.

Sam also doesn't want anything, you know, _sudden_ to happen. So he has to wake Chuck up carefully. He covers the hand with his own before calling over his shoulder a little, "Hey? You up?"

Chuck sniffs awake. "I am, now. You okay?"

"Gotta try to-"

"Oh. Yeah, sure," he slides his hand back and helps Sam sit up.

It hurts to move, it hurts to kick his pants off, it hurts to walk to the bathroom, etc., etc., but it is bearable. Just a stinging reminder by now.

Chuck helps him around, then back to the bed. Lays down in front of him.

His mouth is soft on Sam's forehead. At his hair and his cheek and finally on his mouth. So, yeah. He's gotta stop thinking about how warm it would be to just... well. Rest his poor, abused dick in the wet heat of it. Because it seriously is gonna be another day before even thinking about sex doesn't make him wanna groan.

"I was touching you when you were asleep. I gotta make sure you're okay. If I grossed you out-"

"You're fine. I'm fine. It's okay," Sam assures him.

Chuck still looks worried about it.

"You did exactly what I asked of you. I'm okay. I know you wouldn't-- I think the fact that you're even checking means I trusted the right guy."

"I'm so fucking sorry about your balls," they both grin a little wry. "I once rushed too fast getting into the back seat of a two-door car and smashed myself so hard I fell down across the seat and just went mute and they-- this chick I liked in high school and her best friend? They fucking forgot I was back there and bought movie tickets and got as far as sitting down in the theater before they remembered me. They thought I fell asleep in the car. I just couldn't even move. I wanted to scream but I didn't have the air."

Sam's incident is too fresh. He winces in sympathy and has a hard time taking a deep breath to realign himself. "It is _no_ goddamn joke."

Chuck nods. He pulls Sam's head until they rest against each other. "Tell me when you're ready to trust your pants again. I have an idea."

«»

Chuck goes to invite Dean to lunch but he isn't there. Sam calls and it turns out he had to be at the lot for a delivery.

"Okay. We'll bring him lunch after," Chuck decides. "Come on." He coaxes Sam out of the room eventually and drives him pretty far, to the other side of town until he finds what he's looking for.

It's an ice cream place. And there are kids everywhere.

Sam gives him a weird look.

"Dean's not here, we can have our ice cream date before lunch. But no sexy thoughts because there's kids everywhere."

Sam snorts a laugh and drops his head into his hand.

"I almost turned around like four times. This is ridiculous. I'm ridiculous."

"No. You're not. I promise. You're the best."

"Stay there," Chuck orders. He pulls the key, gets out, comes to Sam's side and escorts him out for once.

It's definitely the loudest ice cream date they've had. It seems like there's half a damn middle school overflowing all the seats in the place and milling around.

They get their ice cream and sit on a bus bench facing the shopping center. Sam sits back kind of uncomfortably there until he shifts to lean on Chuck's right side.

"You okay or-"

"Fine. Thanks. Thanks for the date."

"Eat your ice cream. It'll make you feel better. Then we'll have burgers and a giant bag of fries for lunch. Ice cream, then fries. Married life."

"Married life," he sighs. "We're pretty cool."

"Yeah."

«»

Dean shouts after Sam when he just drops his tools and books it downstairs.

Chuck hasn't even gotten over the initial shock. Hasn't even gasped. He's still holding his wrist in a death-grip, trying to take the sting of pain away with pressure, eyes clenched shut and just as Sam hits the bottom stair he kicks away from the cabinet and curses, inhales harsh. "Ffffuck. _Fuck_."

The bind screamed at Sam for help before Chuck could even get his words together.

He rushes over and draws Chuck to the camp chairs they have set up in the other room. By then, Dean's finally pulling off his work goggles to follow.

Chuck's mouth is clamped tight but there are tears in his eyes and a pained moan startles from his throat when Sam reaches to pull his hand up.

Smashed four of his fingers. They're bloody and there are splinters of wood and it's painful just to look at the flesh where it's ripped away.

Chuck clamps his eyes closed tight and turns from it, breathing through his nose.

It wasn't his writing hand. That's a mercy but the fact that it mirrors what Sandalphon did on the other can't be a comforting thought.

"You're okay," he finally starts to babble. "You'll be alright, you're okay."

Dean's hand comes down on his shoulder. "Gimme permission, Sammy. Then go get the stuff out of the trunk."

Dean can do this better than he can, messy-ragged ones like these. He can do the detail work.

And Sam's not allowed to operate on his spouse.

He doesn't make Chuck move. He comes around the chair. Palms his head up. "Can I let Dean help you?"

Chuck won't open his eyes, but he nods.

He doesn't know if it's really necessary, but he doesn't wanna hurt his brother so he says, "You have permission," out loud, and moves back into the kitchen to grab a pair of pliers, pass it to Dean. "I'll be back in five fucking seconds."

He gets the first-aid stuff from the car and turns away before remembering.

Alcohol.

(Chuck will be fine.)

He grabs the whiskey, too.

Dean's brought one of the construction lamps over and he's pulling splinters out with the pliers.

Sam puts the stuff down by his knee and starts taking things out. "Tweezers," he offers, "or is that working out?"

"We're working out but I should get some alcohol on these."

Dean blinks like he just realized what he said.

"Or use the lighter-"

"Nah, I got it," he takes the pliers and tweezers both to the doorway and pours Jack on them there.

"'Kay. Now hold him still. He's fucking," Dean imitates with his hand. "Vibrating. It's distracting."

Sam swallows and gets on his other side.

He has to hold Chuck's hand still with him. A couple drops of blood pat-pat to the cement.

Sam reaches up to adjust the lamp around Dean's shadow. So he's not blocking his own view. He leans back a little and blinks. "Cas should be done visiting Jody in a couple hours. We can splint this or call him in."

Sam gets his phone out.

"I can deal," Chuck says in a small voice.

"You can't even open your eyes," Dean points out. "I have to get all the wood out, then he'll be able to fix it up."

"You can splint it for a while. I've had worse."

Sam squeezes the hand he's holding super tight and another drop of blood plaps down on the toe of his shoe.

He calls.

"Sam?" Cas answers.

"Need you to fix Chuck up. Carpentry accident."

Chuck snorts.

"Mm. I'll start heading back. Am I meeting you at the property or the motel?"

"Back at our place."

"It'll likely be a half hour."

"Thanks, Cas."

"You're welcome, Sam."

"What did you do, anyway?" Dean asks as Sam hangs up.

"Something was stuck under. I was lifting it like a fucking idiot. I--" he hisses pain.

"Yeah, that was, uh-" Dean shows Sam the size of the piece of wood he just pulled out. There's more blood than before.

Sam looks back over at the pieces Chuck was working with. He knows the ragged, unfinished wood at the bottom of the fixture probably has a bloody mess of skin under it now.

"Let's hold this up higher," Sam nods at a chair so Dean can sit above him and Chuck can hold his hand up above chest height.

Chuck shivers. Hasn't opened his eyes yet.

"Sam knew it was gonna happen."

"I did not."

"You _flew_ down those fucking stairs," Dean objects.

"I got it _as it happened_. Because Chuck did what he was supposed to and called for help," he brings one hand to the back of Chuck's head and soothes it down to his neck, petting. He leans into it. Doesn't comment otherwise.

Dean works around a few tricky pieces for a while then shakes his head. "You gotta try, these ones ain't comin."

Dean moves out of the seat and Sam reaches over to his jacket for Chuck's glasses, uses them to magnify the damage under the light.

"Y'okay, Chuck?" Dean checks as he takes over holding his wrist still.

Chuck finally opens his eyes. He nods. He wants Sam to think he's alright so he can 'operate' on him.

Sam gets a few more splinters out himself. Switches to the tweezers because those few bits aren't coming out with the needle-nose pliers.

Sam blows out a breath after a while. "Think I have to dig for this one," he points it out to Dean.

Dean grimaces and motions for the tweezers. They switch places again.

Dean hesitates. "We should get a- can he take painkillers?"

"No," Chuck bites out. "Just do it, I won't even remember it after Cas heals it up."

Sam understands, he really does, but this has got to be stinging, every touch too near the bone is obviously shocking and painful. They've had to keep a serious grip to hold him still. "Chuck we can-"

"Please just do it. It's so fucking gross. I just don't want to feel it anymore. Get it over with," he begs of Dean, almost _demands_ in a hiss.

Sam wants to make him stop, but he's too late - Dean just goes for it. Sam has to grab Chuck's hand and just hold it still.

Chuck drops his face against Sam's shoulder and muffles himself in his shirt.

Dean digs in, pulling three deep, bloody pieces out. Before Sam can tell him that Chuck needs a breath, he's moving the fingers around to check for more. He pulls two more splinters from the side and checks a final time. "Alright, you're done," he lets go.

Chuck sobs and yanks his hand close, cradling it against himself.

"Alcohol," Dean reminds them, and goes outside to get the gate for Cas. He's gotta be close by now.

Sam pulls Chuck out of the chair and stands, holding him for a while, his face still pressed against Sam's shirt.

He moves his head to the side. "It was just. Way klutzy. I cannot fucking believe I did that. Fully boneheaded." He hisses, clamps his other hand around his wrist. "Oh god," he gasps. "Thanks for coming so fast. Thanks for- I need to thank Dean. I didn't mean to speak to him like that."

"He knows you were in pain, it's okay. We gotta do- I have to get alcohol on your hand."

"Can't Cas just-"

"I'm not risking him closing an infection up inside you."

"I don't think that's how it works," but he doesn't say so with enough certainty.

"I don't take care of you on a 'maybe' basis, Chuck. It's gonna hurt for five more minutes and then Cas will be here, okay?"

He slumps but goes as Sam drags him outside.

He stands in front of Chuck, pulls his hand around himself so he can't see, can't clench his hand up to prepare himself and prevent the alcohol from getting everywhere. Sam splashes whiskey over the area until he stops gasping.

Dean comes up, pocketing his phone, and grabs the bottle from him. Downs the last of the Jack in two slugs.

"He's three minutes out."

Sam draws Chuck to go sit on the hood of the Impala.

When he gets his breath back he says, "Dean? Thanks."

"No problem, you're alright. Owe me a new bottle, but you're alright," he chucks the empty toward the garbage pile they haven't rented a new dumpster for yet.

Chuck just shrugs and gives Sam this hilarious look he snickers at, because it's not like Sam would _let him_ go buy it.

After they decide to just quit for the day, Sam takes their truck back from Cas to put Chuck back up in the motel. After he's all healed up, he's utterly wiped out. Sam knows how draining pain is for him. He's surprised there aren't more exhausted tears when they're alone in the car. Chuck fears being in pain more than anything else in the world. But he's silent and the bind is fuzzy-blank with how tired he is.

When they're one light away Sam's aware of a sudden... spike. Like a slat of light piercing the distance between their minds. Chuck doesn't shift or look away from the passenger-side window.

Chuck also doesn't let himself out of the truck when they get there and Sam just rounds to get him out. He figures he's too sleepy to make sense of anything but when he opens the door, he can tell it's something else.

The curtain has fallen in front of Chuck again.

For the first time since they got married, he's sunk behind a memory. Completely disappeared.

"Holy shit," Sam breathes. Climbs up next to him. Even waves a hand in front of his face.

Chuck kinda grimaces and waves him out of the way on a huge time delay.

Sam takes a deep breath that catches in his throat. But he doesn't wanna be heartbroken right now. He wants to get serious and he wants to fix this. Sam announces himself. "Chuck? I'm gonna touch you. I need to turn you and you need to stand up."

Clearly that doesn't make it through but there's no choice - he needs to say these things so he doesn't make Chuck do anything against his will and he has to get Chuck inside the motel. Sam repeats himself as he moves him.

"Gaawd," Chuck complains after a moment. "We're here already."

Sam's surprised. "You know where you are?"

"The motel," he shrugs.

"Where?"

"Sioux Falls. We just left the house. Like. Six seconds ago."

"Um. It was longer than that, but you're right about where we are. Can you come with me?"

"Oh. I guess." He looks down at his feet like he wants to make sure that's possible. Then he walks the rest of the way to the door, himself.

Sam blinks. Grabs the bag they brought, and follows. Lets him in and he finds the bed. He sits on the end like he thinks this is the best place to be, but he isn't entirely sure why.

"I feel completely fucking gone. What the hell is even happening," Chuck seems to observe.

"You. You're doing the memory thing again. But. You're kinda lucid?" Sam's confused. This is not like it's ever been before.

"I should fucking-" Chuck stops short and stutters and shivers and shakes his head and reaches out for him so Sam goes, automatically. Down on his knees in front of him again but unsure where to put his hands this time; doesn't know how to offer help.

"Chuck??"

"I need to breathe," he gasps like he's startled, "I need to breathe! I need to breathe I need to breathe come find me help me breathe!"

Sam yanks Chuck's hand to his chest and they take deep breaths until Chuck's just wobbly, but no longer frantic.

He closes his eyes. "Remember the. The vamp and the table saw?" he reaches for words. "Remember. Remember Dean. Dean and Gordon."

Shit. "Please tell me you're not the one under the table saw."

"You. I see you seeing it and you're scared of Dean and scared _for_ Dean and you think you should've left Gordon alone." He shivers again. "Sam just remember it. Please remember it. Please tell me the story so I can get through it, _please?_ "

On total accident, he breaks his own rules and presses forward to kiss him. It's completely unintentional - Chuck just says _please_ the right way and it _happens_.

And Chuck doesn't let him go, he keeps him there. Grabs his collar and holds on. Opens his mouth and moans sadly.

Sam yanks back. Chuck opens his blank-stare back up to him. "So fucking hollow. So fucking lonely. So alone. Everyone dies. Please, Sam," his grip is still tight.

"Uh. Um. God. He- he-" Sam reaches back in his memory, closes his eyes for a second and blinks back to focus on his husband. To walk him through it. "Gordon was getting his ass handed to him and," Sam takes a breath, thinks, pulls his hair behind his ears. "Dean took the vamp out. Cut its head off and. And Gordon said he owed us. Owed us a drink. We went to a bar with Gordon," Sam remembers.

Chuck shudders once, all over, and listens.

"We went to a bar-"

"He called m- you Sammy. You hate that."

Sam nods. "Only Dean's allowed to call me that. Dean and you. That's all."

"You couldn't sit and watch Dean."

"I couldn't watch him try to look for family in places that didn't fit. Gordon was bad news."

"You could tell."

He nods. "I could tell."

"I hate Gordon. I hate this story," his fists go tighter in Sam's shirt.

"Me, too, believe me," he tries to untangle his hands and fit them within his own. "I couldn't stand it so I went back to the motel. And I got jumped. I got jumped but it was the good vamps. Lenore. And her family. And they showed me and said they were leaving."

Chuck opens his eyes and Sam notices the bind's gone softer again. Not open and flowing but at least not headache-tense or shut completely. "Dean slugged you. I can't believe-"

"It's okay. It wasn't that bad," he soothes. "Remember Dean and me went? And when he realized Lenore was okay, he beat the hell out of Gordon. We got rid of him. We let the vamps live and we were okay. Not everybody has to die."

Chuck breathes through it. "Not everybody has to die," he repeats.

Now is not the time to remind Chuck of the story he told him about Eve and her Jefferson Starships and how they found her out. Lenore, her clan, Gordon - all dead. So many dead. Chuck just needs to know that their pain after Dad died muted and became manageable. Same as the pain Sam was still feeling over Jess.

Chuck just tripped into that memory and was washed out in all the pain.

But the bind is breezy and soft again. Not canvas or carpet. Sheets on the line and taken from the sunshine to a mattress-

And Sam has never seen Chuck's eyes or his control so entirely clear after an episode like this.

They shared the weight of the memory. And Sam scared it away.

It normally feels like the strongest signals are transferred over the bind from Chuck's side. Like today, when his legs had him running to rescue Chuck before he could even comprehend the damage he'd done to himself.

But, for some reason, this feels like Sam's victory. Feels like he's the one who banished the disturbance and pulled the edges of the bind back in and kept his hand on it until it returned to what it was.

Chuck blinks at him. "I'm okay. I didn't just spill it all over you, did I?"

Sam assess himself. Feels Chuck's hands between his. Feels no more disturbed than he was just worrying about his spouse. "No. I'm okay. I'm better than that. I can't- Chuck. That just worked. It's never gone away that fast," he marvels.

"No fucking kidding," he breathes.

And they stare at each other.  
And Chuck yanks him back in.

Desperate, solid, biting kisses. Shakes his hands free so he can sink them into Sam's hair and Sam can grab him by the waist and haul him up. So he can climb up onto the bed and press Chuck down on it. Clutches him close and tosses his legs open and fits between to roll against him. Gets hard. Strokes under Chuck's shirt so he gets hard. "Good job," he breaks away to babble. "You did such a good job." Kisses down into his mouth and unzips his jeans. "You did such a good job calling for help. You did so good coming back to me. You do-" he kisses into his mouth again before he has to pull back once more just to get this out: "I'm so proud of you. I love you so much. Oh fuck. Oh fuck, oh fuck yes," he tosses Chuck's jeans away and grinds against him. He's beautiful. He's _beautiful_ and he's been through so much in one day. "You need something. What do you need? Let me give it to you." He curves his hands over the backs of Chuck's thighs to push them gently up and apart. Kisses a shin, knee, calf, knee, inner thigh.

Moans fall out of Chuck, and high little cries, and Sam arches too high above him and Chuck's fingers trail out of his hair. He trips them down his front to his pants and shoves his shirt up to get at his belt, fumbling. "Inside me," he finally pleads, "be inside me. I wanna know you're you now. The you from _now_. Not sad and lonely - you'll always have me. I'll never go away. Want you on me. Fuck me hard. I want you happy. Want you excited. Talk to me," he pleads, and gives up trying to wrestle Sam's clothes out of the way as Sam drags his shirt up and off him.

"Love you," Sam repeats and repeats, "open for me. Open up for me," he runs his fingers down, pushing, circling. Has to let go and haul Chuck further up the bed and reach down the far side, into a bag for lube. The distraction lets Chuck open his shirt and then reach in his pants, tug at his cock.

He has to stop his fumbling and grip the edge of the mattress, fuck down into his hand.

The fucking bind goes warm and liquid and he has to sit up so he doesn't just pump wildly for two minutes and come in Chuck's fist.

He sits up and pulls away, takes the rest of their clothes off and gets everything he needs. He comes back in, kisses the hand that's stretched out to him. Takes the fingers Sandalphon broke into his mouth.

He reaches for the other hand and does the same with two of the ones that were injured today - that were just healed not a half hour ago.

He leans over and above Chuck and palms his face to look in his eyes. Chuck's spit-slick hands wander to Sam's cock again. "Just gotta make sure-"

"I'm awake. I'm normal. I can tell the difference. I wouldn't let you push your boundaries. This whole thing's been different. I don't know. I think you've been using the bind to keep me evened out and that whole accident freaked me but I'm here. I never left. The stupid prophet shit just tried to take me and it didn't work. Nothing can take me from my husband."

He knows saying that and twisting his hands over Sam's dick is gonna make Sam fall on him and it does. Sam moves out of his grasp to get his mouth all over Chuck. Get his fingers lubed and inside of him. Make his husband ride his hand until he loses his breath.

Chuck's hands find the headboard instead of Sam's back and, when he pulls his fingers away to slide inside, he has to correct that absolutely unpardonable behavior.

"You touch _me_ ," he declares, drawing Chuck's arms to his neck.

"Yes," he agrees as Sam repositions himself.

"You want to-"

"Yes."

Sam smiles. "You want to make noise for me?"

"Ye-" he gasps with Sam sliding deep.

He makes sure Chuck makes lots of noise. He pumps so the bed frame is rattling, the headboard slamming.

For the first time in a long time someone in another room pounds on the wall in response.

They take enough breath to break apart and laugh.

Then Sam settles his hand snug around him and strokes careful and slow and intentional. Rocks into him the same way. Sits up and stretches and rolls his hips slow until it's hard again, pounding and ramping the speed up and Chuck tries to get a sweat-slick grip on his arms, shouting again. Every noise making Sam so proud he can treat his significant other so right. He stops, suddenly, to get a better footing and go some more. Stops a second time to bring both Chuck's legs to the right and fuck him from the side, mouthing up his shoulder. Chuck reaches up to hold his neck and bring him down to kiss. Shocks in his arms, shudders, and finds just the right way to arch and angle himself, so Sam reaches down and helps. Presses him in place and slides a hand down his belly to his cock to jerk it out of him.

Sam swallows his shouting and his body goes tight. Sam can feel every millimeter of it and it makes him wild. "Keep going, sweetheart, want you to feel so good for me. Come for me. Come for me and tell me you're only mine," he says at his ear.

"Fuc-I'm. Only. _Fucking love you_ ," is all he manages and that's plenty. He's all over Sam's hand, now, and reduced to whimpering as Sam drives home the last few times. Comes on pure love and relief and pride that he's held them together this way. Made them both feel so fucking good. Got Chuck in his arms limp and perfect and speaking in shaky whispers, "Keep touching me. My hearing's sorta- shit. It's coming back. Love you. Tell me how much you love me. I love this. I wanna do this forever. Sam. Sammy."

Sam gets his breath back and speaks at his ear. "Got you. Love you. I feel really fucking good right now. We're so good at our jobs."

"Ugh, tell me about it," he tremors a little and Sam pulls Chuck's hand up to the back of his neck.

"Okay?"

Chuck nods and gasps letting him go. Sam rubs at him, thumbs at the rim and kisses the back of his head. "Can you. I donno. Do your whole soft thing? I had kind of a rough day."

He knows what Chuck means, the cleaning and gentle touches. Instead, Sam palms him protectively and pulls his leg up to tangle with him. Slots behind him, holding him. "You can be a mess for a while. I can't move. I can't let you go."

"Oh," he says, soft-understanding. "It's okay, squid. You can hang on tighter if you want?" he offers.

Sam hugs him close. "Oh no. Don't say cute things to me. I'm a giant killer," he hooks his chin on Chuck and, quite to the contrary, touches him gently and snags the sheets so he can tug them up all the way and keep him warm.

"My husband, friend, precious squishy squid with soft hair, all sleepy-warm and grown up saving people," he says into the sheet. "My ruthless murderer. Do you wanna hold me up in the shower or do you wanna call your fam and let them know you're too busy touching me to come to dinner?"

He grumbles. "I don't want to share you anymore today. I wanna leave you all messy and rattle the walls again when we wake up," he yawns.

Chuck doesn't normally like it when they're that loud and anyone can hear, but he didn't seem to mind when they were going at it so intensely.

He was probably just letting Sam show off, to be honest.

Oh, crap. They have to go to dinner with Dean and Cas in an hour. He wants to brag that they dragged Chuck out of his head when he fell into a memory.

Well. Maybe that doesn't mean as much to everyone else, but he's still glowing with pride over it. He rubs his nose into Chuck's neck. "Thanks for not leaving me alone for the rest of the day. You did _such_ a good job. I'm just so fucking happy. You make me so goddamn happy."

Chuck wiggles to turn in his arms and he helps him turn over, tangles their legs again. "You make me happy, too," he says, earnest, eyes soft and hooded. "Goofy-happy and safe and warm and healthy. I didn't even know I could exist this way. I want to be a soft dork with you for the rest of the night."

"Soft-dork sounds like our music genre."

"Soft-dork, elective-psychic, incongruously-oceanic, homebuilding-nomadic hunters."

"Tub-dwelling, soul-bound, grocery-shopping, half-sober, coffee-flavored significant others."

He frees his hand to grab Sam's nose and tweak it. "Tell me how I'm not supposed to be cute with you again?"

«»

Well then. He kept Chuck from drowning. He is absolutely positive his side of the bind has kept Chuck from sinking in the first place, for all these months. And now it helps him drag Chuck back to the surface. It kept Chuck vaguely aware, let him hang on and call for help.

And Sam yanked him back just in time.

It's such a relief.

Chuck can save Sam from the repeated dangers of having his will taken from him.

Sam can save Chuck from the repeated dangers of his own brain.

He's so thrilled. They end up meeting Dean and Cas for a late dinner and he absolutely does brag. Not about recovering Chuck and immediately making him come, but about how his side of the bind does what he asked for. It's just what they fucking needed.

It works.

Cas is curious about how, but the difference in their accounts is stark and definitive for him. Almost seems to confuse him.

Including the ride back to the motel (Sam doesn't know at what point it started, exactly), it took a maximum of maybe fifteen to seventeen minutes for Sam to find Chuck stuck and drag him out. 

The worst account Chuck has ever given of getting stuck in a memory makes it seem like he was off the clock for maybe five goddamn _days_. The average, while they've been together, has been about 20 hours of deep-to-mild drag and stupor. The worst Sam has witnessed, personally, was about two days of blank hell after Sandalphon. They got to Chuck's apartment, Sam asked to move in, they had a day of recovery (and sex) and two days Chuck doesn't even remember before Sam had to leave for the hunt in New Jersey. He had assumed that was why Chuck didn't wanna come with - he thought he was going to weigh Sam down or something. But he did, eventually, tell Sam that he'd wanted to come all along.

The contrast between two days, or even twenty hours, versus 17 minutes is astounding.

There's no doubt in his mind that Chuck wasn't faking it to make him feel better. Sam was going to hate himself for kissing Chuck when he wasn't completely aware, but, minutes later, his eyes were totally clear. His beautiful, pale eyes, color and pupil, balanced, not blown out or pin-point. And him thinking, processing, _awake_ behind them.

There's a lag, a stutter and halt and delay to his movements, speech, and thought processes when he's stuck.

Sam saw the clouds dissipate. You can't fake that.

Chuck got what he asked for. The focus of the binding ritual, for him, was protecting Sam.

They don't even know how, and Chuck wasn't even aware of it happening, but the bind did as Chuck required: it struck down someone who was gonna take Sam's choices from him.

Sam is positive, now, that the bind has given _him_ the most important thing _he_ asked for, too: Chuck won't disappear for hours or days anymore. He's allowed to be himself. Sam's side of the bind smothered the prophecy recall; suspended Chuck above the precipice and didn't let him fall.

He savors the low-frequency signal, now. He's got this locked in. Chuck won't be in danger anymore without him knowing. He's sure of it. He feels so attuned to their shared life at the moment.

So when Charlie calls to report a probable hunt, Sam doesn't have to ask where his husband stands - if he wants to dodge the ball and stay to work on the house or go to Michigan with Dean and Cas.

He holds out his hand and Chuck crosses the room to take it. The signal gets stronger at their touch and he knows that Chuck wants to see more of the world this week. Knows they've both had enough of 'carpentry accidents' for now.

When Cas is done reading the article aloud, Sam nods to his brother. "When do you wanna hit the road?"

Dean shrugs, takes the laptop from Cas to check the construction traffic warnings.

Chuck passes Sam his coffee to share.

«»

In a new town, in a new motel, Cas drops back in his chair when they figure it out, half relieved and half angry. "An angel, then."

He knows that Dean makes sure Sam turns back to the files before he clamps a hand around Cas's neck and presses close to speak quietly, convince him it'll be fine, it'll work out.

Chuck helps him figure an approximate map and Dean and Cas get their gear ready to start canvassing.

Sam helps Chuck pack their books and tech up and they can return to their own room, across the parking lot. He starts changing into a suit and Chuck digs for his own and... Sam realizes he can't come with.

He gets his phone and calls Dean. Crosses the room to still Chuck's hands.

"Question."

"Yup."

"Do _all_ the angels know the names of _all_ the prophets?"

Dean repeats the question to Cas. "Uh. Yeah."

"Do they all know their faces?"

"Oof. Uh. Cas. Would any old angel know a prophet on sight?"

Cas takes the phone. "It would be unwise for Chuck to be seen."

"Got it. Thanks." He hangs up. "You're not going. Too dangerous."

Chuck narrows his eyes. Exhales. "You sure? I can hear grace if I get close enough."

"Not worth the risk. I don't know what one would do if they saw you when you're supposed to be dead. I can't risk that they'd go on a holy mission to take you out or something. I don't want to put you in their path."

Chuck still hesitates.

"It scares me. I'm asking you. Please," he says as calmly as he can. Hunting isn't Chuck's favorite thing. It shouldn't take much to get him to stay back.

"I want you to have all the backup you can. The others aren't coming in-"

"And they shouldn't. This is an angel problem. Cas goes in first and me and Dean are backup. I want-- I'm asking you. Please. As much as I don't wanna abandon you in the room until this is over, I hate the idea of-"

"Protecting me would take away from the job at hand," he releases the bag and backs off.

"It's not that you're-"

"Come down here," Chuck urges.

"I'm sorry."

"It's okay. I get it. You call if you need anything. Text me to let me know you're alive."

"We'll come by with lunch and things. Don't bother with the research. You can write some more."

"Sammy," he holds both sides of Sam's face. "It's okay. You gotta split with both cars?"

"Yeah. Think so. But I could steal something in town-" he tries to offer.

Chuck's already shaking his head. "No more crimes than you need to in one county. That one store is walking-distance. I'll be fine."

He lets Chuck pet him for a while before he finally decides to offer, "You sure? You could even head back home."

Chuck smiles. "How're you gonna sleep when you get back to the room if I'm not here?"

"I genuinely do not know, but if you'd rather be home right now, I could send you back."

Chuck kisses him and so he has to fold down around him. "I'm sorry I told you what to do. I don't-"

"Stop. You're okay. It's fine."

So Sam is very sure that the bind is doing its job on his end. At last. But he hasn't let Chuck out of sight since the aborted episode.

And maybe he's a little terrified that it will surge back up in his absence.  
He's really not okay.

«»

**Sext: there's an indie bookstore in town with comics in the window. Can't wait to take u after.**

**your sexting game needs work.**

**I'm a little rusty my real life sex game is getting lots of practice tho. Send pix.**

**the day I send pics is the day dean steals ur phone and I get laughed at. Mercilessly.**

**Sext: I keep thinking about your thighs.**

**better**

**Sext: coffee shop then the bookstore then the art supply store. There is some sexy paper here ur gonna like it.**  
**Follow-up sext: bought a notebook for you.**

**OH NO STOP DOING THAT**

He kinda wants to call Chuck up and do goofy, goopy voices and call him "pumpkin" or "lover" or something just to gross Dean out. But that's not the kind of thing he can always just spring on Chuck; sometimes it messes with his reality (and Sam is trying _very hard_ not to do that this week).

The day is long. They're out for twenty damn hours chasing leads and he feels totally guilty about waking Chuck up to let him into the room. He almost sleeps in the Impala but he wants to be warm and have his achy bones held.

Chuck answers at the code, frowny and blurry.

Sam must look worse than him.

He clicks over to worried and alert and pulls Sam to the bed, makes him sit, takes off his clothes for him. Then he gets in and tugs Sam around himself. Brings him down into kisses until Sam pretty much falls asleep in the breaths between.

«»

Chuck is hissing into his phone when he wakes up. "-even been three hours, there's no way. Leave us alone. Leave him alone I want him to fucking sleep," he swings between pissed and pleading.

Dean just kicks at the door instead.  
There's only enough time for Sam to shut the door on Dean one more minute, press Chuck to the wall and kiss into his mouth.

"Thank you. Thank you for getting me two hours of sleep. It was amazing. I feel great just because you were here with me. Honest," he says to Chuck's doubtful droop. "Please go back to bed. Get more sleep for both of us. I love you so much."

Dean honks the Impala's horn, one short beep.

"Be careful. I hate that you didn't even-"

"My time with you is like double-time, though. It's like I got five hours 'cause you're so perfect," he kisses a smile into his neck.

"You're fulla shit. I love you, anyway. Go save the town. Go stop an angel. Tell me you're always careful."

"So careful. I'll call. I'll text," one more kiss and he has to rip himself away.

It goes like that for the next two days until they're pretty sure they might have chased the guy out of town. The trail goes cold. 

Dean lets him go back to the motel and he crashes out with his head in Chuck's lap. Wakes up hours later the same way.

Chuck doesn't get angry at Dean when he calls this time. He looks resigned. Hands the phone over for Sam to answer.

"It's been five hours. You're good, right? He's not gonna snap my head off?"

Sam sits up and stretches.

Chuck stares but he doesn't look happy about it.

"What happened?" he asks through a yawn.

"We wanna go to lunch and strategize. We need to rethink this. Bring him with, the more brains the better. We'll pick you up in thirty."

Ugh. Only enough time to make out and shower and find fresh clothes. This sucks.

"Fine. Bring coffee." He hangs up.

Chuck sets his laptop aside and kinda lumps there.

"You're coming with, at least?" Sam shrugs.

"You need more sleep."

Sam sighs. "I really need to--" he doesn't wanna say it. He doesn't have time to draw it out and make it slow and hot. He wants to spend a while kissing and then suck him off. He wants to be the one to watch Chuck sleep for a while.

"I need to shower with you. If I at least don't get to touch you I'm gonna start getting itchy or something."

The planning session has them splitting up.

Chuck kind of nudges it that way.

They take their car and stop for coffee two more times but Chuck doesn't get any easier about this. He only forces himself into business mode.

They don't get far when Sam's had about enough of this shit.

He goes back to the motel and sleeps for an hour just to see Chuck go a little more loose. Relieved.

Dean and Cas quit their own path and call them for dinner. Another strategy session.

They're grabbing at straws.

Sam goes to wait out in the parking lot for the Impala while Chuck finishes talking to Claire on the phone.

Because his eyes follow Chuck whether or not he means for them to, he's aware of him leaving the motel room and coming to stand by him before he realizes Chuck is staring back. It's the lack of sleep and he shakes himself a little so he doesn't betray it.

Then Chuck's eyes narrow and he looks to Sam's back.

He realizes he's slumped into that lean he does on his coat pockets and straightens up.

Sways and cracks his neck. Stands straighter.

Chuck blinks.

Then his hand comes up to Sam's back, middle and center, warm and testing.

This is one of Sam's old jackets. He doesn't do this with the ones Chuck gave him for their first half-anniversary.

Giving himself scoliosis or something by not washing the blood and monster goo out of the others. Is scoliosis something you're infected with or you give yourself? He's never looked it up.

Chuck presses that hand against his back and Sam feels like he's looking for the ridge of his spine.

He tilts his head and turns and so Chuck puts both hands to his back like testing for integrity.

Then he circles and comes to Sam's front and dumps himself there, arms around Sam's waist and eyes-closed-head-resting.

Sam can't hide the fact that he kind of growls contentment deep in his chest when Chuck's got an ear pressed against it. So he just sinks his chin to Chuck's hair and reciprocates his hold. He whispers, "Sweetheart," because he likes to say it. Because Chuck's crunchy grumpy exterior is there to protect his insides and his insides are where Sam chooses to hang his heart at night.

Because he's gone on their sweet soft touches and Chuck's too-keen eye and endless worry and praise and the curl of him in bed, under their sheets, exposing his own spine in the night without a care in the world.

"Worried about your back. I think I should tell you not to pick me up anymore."

"I'm not wearing the right coat, that's all," he admits.

"If I break you I'm a total shit. I think you should cool it."

"I fucking double-dog dare you to try and stop me," he says light and loving and shakes his head and kisses Chuck's. He palms the back of his skull and senses from the weight of him that he's sleepier than he should be.

"Did they decaf you on the last one?"

"No. No," Chuck mumbles.

"You're not sleeping well."

Chuck doesn't respond.

He fucking knew it. Every time he woke up Chuck was still awake. He thought it was coincidence at first. "What's wrong with the bed?"

"I donno, but it's wrong with the couch, too. My pillow doesn't make a difference, either. I." He huffs a harsh breath and his hands cling into the back of Sam's jacket.

Shit. Sam handles his head so he turns his eyes up. Bloodshot and drooping eyelids, pinch of a headache.

"Ugh," he rolls his head on his neck again. "You didn't tell me. You're supposed to tell me when something goes this wrong." He can't feel this kind of subtly creeping exhaustion over the bind. The big things come through at Sam but Sam feels so worn and slouching himself that Chuck's tiredness is just a thread woven into his own.

"I figure we'll be out of here in two, three days."

"Three more days of no sleep? Why would you think that's even-" he breathes and lets go so he can clutch back at Chuck's jacket. No. Nope. This pisses Sam off. They're supposed to be moving away from heavy-duty caseloads and here Chuck is putting the case before himself. A case he's not really even allowed to fucking work on because angels are involved.

He shouldn't be out here. Sam should have sent him away when they learned. He should have called somebody else in and tagged out.

_Tagged out._

He reaches around Chuck's arm for his phone and texts and it says just that:  
**Tagging out**.

Then drags Chuck back toward the motel room door. Unlocks it and basically has to prop Chuck against a wall to lock back up.

Dean calls.

"You guys got this. I mean, Cas has got this, right?"

Dean considers for a moment. "Mostly. You're bitching out? Why?"

"You're not gonna pick us up. Call Charlie and Jody in if you gotta. But you've got this. Cas can handle his own brother. And you owe the jar a dollar."

"Sam-" he starts to protest kind of laughingly.

Sam finally sighs. "I'll call you back."

"No, wait, hold on. Is something- did something happen to Chuck?"

He shouldn't feel like he's _blaming_ things on his significant other, so the assumption pisses him off. "No, I'm kinda fed up of still playing fetch for fucking heaven," he pries Chuck off the wall and Chuck goes with like a floppy fake houseplant stuck in a large ceramic.

"Woah. Okay. All you gotta say is Chuck isn't doing so well. I won't call you _whipped_. He's goddamn human. It's okay."

"No, now, wait a fucking minute-"

"Nah, no. You're right. We got this. I'll call you in if things go hairball. Just. Text me updates. He's gonna be fine as long as you look after him," Dean promises.

"Wait-"

"Keep your phone on, Sammy," and he hangs up.

Sam pockets his cell and rubs his head. "I'm not sure I have a grip on anything at all or if I ever did," he looks down to Chuck.

"You are just in time for our club meeting," he rolls his eyes.

Sam slumps.  
Then just kicks off his shoes.

He sits Chuck on the bed to take most his clothes off and he droops, falls into rattling a hand against the mattress and that could only be more pathetic if accompanied by an actual whine.

"It's okay, I'm not gonna make you," he pulls his fingers down Chuck's arms and promises. Tosses most his own things off and gets in, moves the sheets, and finally draws Chuck down on top of himself. If the mattress is what's keeping him from sleeping, Sam will sleep on the mattress and Chuck will sleep on him.

"Oh god," he whispers.

"You're okay."

"You don't have to do this," Chuck insists, brimming with emotion he's too tired to stifle.

"I can watch you cry from actual exhaustion or I can help you get a couple hours sleep before we head out of town. I _do_ have to do this. Apparently everybody but me knew I had to do this today." Chuck whines some, wordless and guilty, but Sam holds him close and doesn't let his body go.

He leaves the sheets off of them because his own temperature will overheat Chuck, still, even with the ring on. The point is to get him comfortably to sleep and lay him back to the side and let him really rest.

But Sam wakes two hours later to cold sheets beside him and Chuck across the room, miserably awake, cramped on the couch.

He tosses the sheets aside and brooks no argument hauling him back over. He brings his phone charger so he's got something to do and he just lets Chuck sleep on top of him, comfortable and snoring into Sam's t-shirt. Doesn't set him to the side or let him go

When Chuck finally wakes back up, he's still sour and sad looking. It's the very early hours of the morning.

"Alright," he sits up, pulls Chuck to stand between his knees and feels under his jaw, under his arms, checks his pulse, eyes, temperature. "I don't think you're sick. We can have Cas zap you just in case."

"It's the room," he mumbles, then, "I donno. I guess."

The room?

He's gotta wonder...

Sam pulls his jeans on and they get dressed. He backs Chuck into a wall, pressing a kiss to his head real hard. Does the same to his mouth when he's pinned there. "I want you to stay here. Please? And I'll be right back. The power's gonna go off. I'll be right back," he repeats, and ducks outside before Chuck can protest.

This motel is made up of a series of two-room units. Dean and Cas are across the parking lot this time, though, and Cas hasn't been over to their room.

With all the power still on in the unit, he won't be able to tell. But if he can get to the electrical panel and pull some wires--

He returns to the room and steps into the dark, holds his hand out. "Why did that make it more creepy in here?" Chuck asks, finding him by touch.

"See, I don't feel creep as well as you can, sweetheart." He leads him over to the bags. "I'm a little inured to it. I think you might be sensing something I'm not."

He digs through the bags. Finds what he's looking for.  
The moment he switches on the EMF meter, it blares, lights and sounds.

If he swings it to the bed it wails. The couch, it howls.

"Oh fuck. Was I sleeping with fucking dead people??!"

Yikes. "Um. Well, you weren't actually _sleeping_ , like you said."

"Sam! Not helping!" he tugs Sam's arm in the direction of the door. "I DO NOT wanna be here anymore! Please!"

"Okay! Alright." He switches the meter off. Puts it in his pocket. He takes Chuck outside and Chuck clings which is heartrending and sweet and he grips back. "Crap. I just left you in there. I didn't even think about it. I don't think to check that kinda thing. I'm sorry. I just dropped you off and went hunting. Fuck. You're gonna be okay, you don't have to stay in there. 

"I guess we can keep the room. I can shower in there and just sleep in the car."

Sam pulls back and scrutinizes him. "You're not sleeping in the fucking car. I'll get you a different room."

Chuck blinks. "Sam, you guys sleep on the road all the time."

"We... used to? That's not where you're sleeping."

"Why not?" he asks, incredulous, like he really doesn't _know_.

"Chuck," he could almost laugh, "Because you're _you_. I don't let you slum it."

He still looks. Confused?  
Like, what the fuck.

How is this not basic?

But, then again, Sam has to look for other words than the truth to really explain the concept: Chuck trusts him when he knows he doesn't have a record of being trustworthy. Chuck holds the pieces of their relationship that he loves the most. Chuck literally lets Sam _inside himself_ and how fucking dirty and base and ungrateful would it be for him to make Chuck sleep in a parking lot when he wants to rail him hard and come inside of him on a weekly basis?

He sighs. "How about this: You? You're mine to protect. So you don't sleep like a hobo. I know how much you value sleep. You're not asking for fucking silk sheets and gourmet room service. You just need a soft, clean space to crash. And if I can't give you that, I don't deserve you."

Chuck doesn't lose that confused look. So Sam decides to just prove it. He goes to the unit next to theirs and breaks in. It's been vacant since yesterday. The EMF meter only buzzes a slight disturbance from the direction of their room.

But that's still not good enough. Chuck deserves not to be creeped out. Nobody has fully manifested yet, but it's not outside of the realm of possibility for a spirit to suddenly flip to angry and decide to follow them next door. He returns, gathers their bags, and tosses them in the car. He presses another kiss to Chuck's head and has him wait in the front seat. Then, he goes to the front office and complains that the power went out and he wants a different room.

The guy gives him a key for another unit, near the back of the lot.

Sam moves the car in front of it and unloads the bags again and Chuck plants himself on the new bed more stunned than he's seen him in a long time.

He reaches out a hand and Sam catches it in passing.

Chuck tugs him to the bed.

"You changed your world for me," he says, dazed.

Sam shrugs. Their planets have been expanding to engulf each other for a while now. And switching motel rooms is hardly unheard of.

"Sit right where you are," he requests. "Don't move."

So Sam sits still except to open his arms when Chuck presses against him.

It's dismay and the lingering exhaustion and probably a touch of ghost sickness from marinating for three days in a bed where somebody died and left something behind. Chuck cries. And it's just an emotional few minutes, not an all-out wailing agony, or weeping thick with sadness. He just wasn't ready to realize that Sam isn't gonna treat him like he's only hanging on when he can't fully participate in a hunt. It somehow didn't occur to him that he's still as important as anything else on the job, even if he doesn't _do_ the job.

Sam wants to be what lifts him. Not just what he lives with.

And the awful thing is, it's just motel rooms. It's only a matter of ensuring that Chuck gets sleep if he has to leave him alone again. It's not-  
You know.

A _ring_. That he earned, piece-by-piece, selling off his words 500 at a time. And then bought another. And then goddamn _got bound to him_

Sam doesn't have to _earn_ any of this. Just go out of his way occasionally. And out of his way, onto Chuck's path.

Even though they've been apart for a lot of the last three days, it occurs to Sam that he hasn't felt seriously alone - lonely - in a couple years now.

He shakes his head. "When are you gonna get sick of me. I gotta wonder. Because I just keep wanting to stay and stay and stay."

Chuck sniffles and leans into him. "Stay. I won't get sick of you. I don't think anything has helped me grow more. I'm so not used to this. I'm so." He shakes his head.

Sam pets down his back, slow and slow and slow. "I'll tell Dean about the last room. He'll get so angry. He'll yell about nothing being sacred. He'll probably torch the mattress in the parking lot before we go."

That finally gets a smile and a happy nuzzle out of Chuck.

Sam wipes his face off with the corner of his jacket and his thumb.

"You really love me," Chuck falls into that blank-faced wonder.

"Yeah," Sam smiles a little. "Kinda wanna be with you 'til the day I die."

Chuck goes breathless. "Oh god. I can't believe this worked," he repeats for the hundredth time.

"I'm gonna go pull the power and check this room just in case."

"No! No, you don't have to. You already did so much."

"Chuck. Seriously. No big deal, okay?"

"Well. Well, there's a street lamp right outside. It will throw off the readings anyway."

"Okay, alright," he palms Chuck's face and undresses him. "I'm gonna put you back to sleep. Okay? A little while longer. If I have to leave I'll write a n-"

"You'll wake me up."

"I'll wake you up. You sure?"

"Yes. New rule: you don't leave home without saying so."

"When we're hunting, I don't leave home without at least one kiss."

"Yeah, okay."

"I won't mention that's kind of heartbreaking," he frowns.

"Nooo," Chuck moans softly. "Don't do that."

"Sleep some more. I love you. I need you to feel better or I'll get homesick because my home's sick."

Chuck can't possibly melt into the sheets anymore. He's so exhausted still. He just sighs and closes his eyes and makes a tiny noise when Sam kisses his neck.

«»

Dean frowns and looks over his shoulder, but puts the Impala in drive and they head off.

"Yeah. Moved rooms," Sam says to the unspoken question. "First one? Fucking haunted," he tosses a hand, like, _can you believe that shit?_

As expected, Dean balks, disgusted. "What the fuck?? I fucking swear. People love to off themselves in dumpy motels, but do they think of who has to clean up after 'em? Of course not. Some fucking underpaid maid, probably, and then we're gonna have to burn the damn unit down before we leave. Such bullshit," he shakes his head.

Sam would laugh but he just agrees because he's actually kinda pissed.

Cas comes to look over the front seat. "Did Chuck encounter the spirit?"

"The- he couldn't sleep. Not the whole time. I EMFed the room and," he mimes a riot of activity. "They weren't fucking with him directly but he hasn't been able to sleep since he got here."

"Is _nothing_ fucking sacred??" Dean sneers.

"That's what I said!"

Dean's the one who follows up. They may be busy with the case but it really bothers him. He searches for articles and, actually, several small blurbs come up about the motel. Murders and suicides. Tiny reports because the town is just that used to people dropping in the damn place.

He sends Cas to talk to the maid when they get a chance. "A lovely woman from Honduras," Cas reports. "She was a paralegal there. She calls her dog-"

"The _room_ , Cas," Dean presses.

"Murder-suicide. She says they simply turned the mattress over and bought a cover for the couch. New carpet. Painted over the walls. They cleaned and shampooed but there was organic material everywhere."

"Oh. We really do have to burn the whole room down."

"We'll make it look like an electrical fire. I already complained after I took the power out. We should make sure the owner can get insurance off it," Sam notes.

"Always rooting for the little guy, Sammy," he looks back to Cas. "We got enough salt for the whole thing?"

Cas perks. "I saw large bags are on sale this week at the hardware store."

"I guess bargain hunting still counts as hunting," Sam smirks at his enthusiasm.

Dean sighs at them both like he's in pain.

«»

Chuck is able to surprise him in all kinds of ways. He gets presents for Sam, still, as much as Sam goes out and takes him to get new stuff.

When they get home, he gets a box in the mail and Sam carries it up and Chuck blinks and stops typing when it's dumped on the table in front of him.

He leans around the computer. "Open that, please?"

"Yeah," Sam finishes sorting through the other pieces and thumbs a knife open, snaps it along the edges.

"Hoodie. That's you," he says pulling the fabric out and open.

"Um. Actually, that's you. It should be long enough for your whole," he motions up and down his torso.

It's the same color as Chuck's ugly-green one. A little less washed-out, of course. "We're gonna match," this really pleases him to an absurd degree.

"I just wanted you to try it," Chuck adjusts his glasses. "If you only wanna wear it to exercise, that's fine. But it looked right. It looked comfortable."

Well. He shakes it out of the box and turns it and pulls it over his head.  
God. Damn.

Nice.

"Mm. Now we can be schlubs _together_ ," Chuck pretends to flutter. "What else is family for?" he smirks.

"God." So comfy. "I'm keeping it."

"Good." Chuck sways back behind the computer to keep writing.

It's not even _a day_. That's just how Chuck does things.

Not that Sam always gets _him_ stuff on a special day.

Well. Okay. So they both pull this crap.

He shrugs in his new hoodie and smiles. Pushes the box aside and goes to the end of the table to attack-hug Chuck.

"Aagh! Wow! This was a mistake! You're approximately EIGHT HUNDRED fucking degrees!"

"I love you."

"You're going to _consume_ me if you're not careful, I'm sweating already," he pushes at Sam's shoulder but he doesn't let go. He makes him squirm some more.

«»

Dean knocks on their door early one morning. Then he calls because they can't hear from the other room. Sam answers his phone, blurry and snuffling into Chuck's shoulder.

"So, you gonna let me in, or?"

"Oh," he clears his throat. "Okay. Hold on." He hangs up. Hooks his hand around Chuck's side and holds on tight. "You wanna put jeans on? Dean's here."

"Sooerly."

"Yeah. Okay. I'll start coffee. But try to wander into your pants, okay?" he smirks against Chuck's head and kisses him and closes the door behind himself when he leaves the room.

"Hey," he lets Dean in. He's holding a dozen-box from Dunkin' Donuts.

"Was about to kick it in."

"I know. I need ten minutes."

"Yeah. 'S fine," Dean waves and follows him into the kitchen. He doesn't come up here a lot and he blinks at things with a stiff, unfamiliar look.

"You can sit," Sam grins at him. Then pushes him and opens the box and gets a glazed one. Stuffs it in his mouth while he starts the coffee.

Dean heads out to the couch. Comes back around for a paper towel.

Chuck lurches out into the main room when he can finally find his feet.

"Mornin' Chuckie Cheese," Dean says, munching on half a donut.

Chuck just barely makes it to the couch and slumps there.

"I never get over how funny that is. I think you could just," Dean motions, "push him on his face and he'd still just crawl around like nothing happened because he's that confused anyway. No coffee, he's just. Confused. Like when you put something down in front of a bug and it's just like 'why did the world change?'"

Sam doesn't comment on this. It's true, but he's not in the habit of mocking him. It's his job to let other people in their family do that and then listen to Chuck lament the injustice and pet his head and nod and kiss him.

Dean pushes the box across the coffee table. Chuck just blinks at it, so he actually picks a chocolate donut up and puts it in his face until he takes it.

And... doesn't quite know what to do about it.

Dean laughs.

Sam airlifts a mug down in front of him. Sets it on his stomach until he grasps the handle.

Well, now his hands are full. Jesus. That suddenly looks like a lot of responsibility. But Sam just laughs at him and leaves him to it.

They talk about picking up supplies for the house. Might have to steal a moving truck to get them all in one go.

"You comin' with?" Dean elbows Chuck.

It sloshes the coffee.

"Nevermind, I don't think you can lift heavy objects like this."

"He'll be fine," Sam says around another donut.

But then he comes up from behind and looks down over him.

"I'm gonna go take a shower. Try to be more functional."

With his hands full he just kind of looks up from his slump and.  
Shrugs.

Okay.

Sam leaves them to make nice with each other.

When he comes back out pulling on a jacket, Dean's gone and Chuck still hasn't moved.

"Are you not coming?"

He's at least gotten through the first donut and hooked another, partially bitten, over his mug. "Uh. I think I'm gonna write. Dean says you'll be back today. I don't want us to have to get a motel room just for me."

"Oh. Yeah, that's cool." He tries to ignore the sting of discontent. He thought they weren't splitting up for this anymore. But if Dean can only really work today and they'll be back later, he can just look forward to coming home. They don't stay away from each other so much anymore.

He really doesn't need that "absence makes the heart grow fonder" bullshit.  
It's crap.

It's better to _have_ what you _have_ while you can _still have it_.

But. He doesn't push. Chuck used to write all day long. He could probably use a full, quiet day of that.

Chuck sets everything aside and goes to wash his hands; comes back around.

Sam's hair is still wet and Chuck's hands go there when Sam tugs him close. "It's really very pretty. You look beautiful today." Sam laughs about that, but Chuck requests a hickie just so he can run his fingers through it for one more minute.

"You can do that without me biting you. It's okay."

"Thanks. Love you."

"Love you, too. I'll be home tonight. Might be pretty late. But I will."

"If a hunt comes up, swing by and get me, don't just leave me here."

"If a hunt comes up, we're supposed to send Krissy this time, and tell her to call if they need backup. Charlie says. They get the first call on the next one. Anyway, it's just today. I'll be home," he insists.

Chuck nods and kisses him one more time.

When he starts to move away, Chuck shakes his head. "You don't wanna do that. Do what you really need to."

He takes a deep breath and moves to press him against the wall, kiss up his neck and into his mouth, deep. Then he pulls him over to the table and sits him in front of his computer. Moves to bring his coffee and donut over. Presses another kiss to him. "Okay. I'm good now," he nods.

"Okay. See you later," Chuck touches his neck one more time and.  
Okay. He can go.

Dean doesn't even make fun of him when he gets down to the car. He just puts his own phone back in his pocket and turns up the radio.

«»

Dean disappears outside a few times to wander the lot. He never comes back looking too happy.

Sam finally has to take the staple gun out of his hand and yank the power cord. Hands him a beer and points to one of their junky chairs.

"Cas is a little messed up right now. That's all."

Jesus. "Please tell me he didn't drive in the opposite direction and you agreed to take a breather."

"I didn't agree to shit." So Dean is the one who's more fucked up than Cas is right now, basically.

"You wanna tell me what's up?"

Dean shifts. Kicks his boots out and takes a swig. "Every time we drag somebody off to the sandbox- send 'em to angel jail? Either there's somebody on guard duty who thinks Cas is the one who belongs in there or some brother or sister begging him to come home."

Sam cringes.

Dean is silent for a while.

"Does he ever-- has he told you he's considered it?"

Dean shakes his head. "He doesn't wanna go up anymore. He feels-." Dean stops. Winces. "He told me once he's afraid to go back up because he might." Dean stops again, but doesn't finish this time. "I would give anything to know. To just know that he."

Dean has a way harder time with this and it's not because his and Cas's relationship is rocky. It's because both of them have hurt each other so deeply that the trust has to go just as deep.

Has to go to a place where maybe Sam doesn't belong.

However, he is pretty sure he gets the gist of it.

Cas's family hurts him. The idea of him even maybe wanting to go home stings Dean.

Shit, Sam can't stand the idea of Chuck wanting to go home and the worst they could do is talk shit about him and drink in front of him.

It's not likely they'd strap a torture device to his head, shove a sword through him, reprogram him, or lock him in a cell.

It's worse when he considers that, the way Cas has talked in the past, he might even believe he deserves that kind of treatment.

He's just fucked up right now. And Dean doesn't wanna push. So he won't tell Cas not to go. He won't ask Cas to make up his mind and tell him for sure. He won't clip what's left of Castiel's wings.

"You can ask him to pick you again. Even if you don't feel like you deserve it, Dean? You can _tell him_ you want him to keep picking you. You can ask him to do it. You're allowed."

Dean just. Goes pale. Acts like he didn't hear. Finishes his beer. Gets up to plug everything in again.

They work 'til it's dark.

«»

It's very late by the time Sam is dropped off. He comes in quiet, edging through the door before it can squeak. He expects Chuck to be asleep. But there's the sound of the tap running in the kitchen and Sam comes around the corner and sees the sink full of dishes, two plates and sets of utensils on the counter.

He's stuck half-way into the arms of his jacket.

"Uh," he announces himself.

"Hi."

"Hey. Um. What's up?"

"You ate dinner like five hours ago, right? So you can at least try this. It's like midnight dinner. Second dinner."

Sam pulls his jacket all the way off and a grin slowly grows across his face. "Did you make me dinner?"

"Yeah." He finishes plating stuff and lets it sit on the counter for a minute so he can turn to the bedroom. Sam follows to pull his work-worn shirt off and interrupts Chuck retrieving.

Honestly:  
Flowers.

"You're fucking kidding me right now," Sam's eyes go really wide. "Did you? Is this? Am I supposed to remember that this is a day or something?"

Chuck shrugs and hands him the flowers. "This is just a day where I'm in love with my husband and I try to earn the fact that he loves me back."

Dude.

The plastic crunches in Sam's hand and he sort of... picks through the flowers and feels the petals and wipes pollen from his thumb and smells the bundle like he's not exactly familiar with the concept. And he's. You know. Not.

"I don't know what you even do with flowers," Chuck smiles and they laugh because what the fuck.

"I think we have. We have a mixing bowl that's tall enough. We'll put them in the mixing bowl," Sam snorts.

He considers the flowers for another minute.

"Chuck?"

He shrugs.

"Thanks. Um. Thank you."

"Do you wanna eat second dinner?"

"Yeah," Sam nods. And brings his flowers with him, follows Chuck out to the kitchen.

They eat at the counter, standing up, because Sam was just in a car for two hours and he can't stop fidgeting and looking over to where he laid the flowers down and he keeps spooning more sauce onto his plate.

"You know," Sam eventually says, "when people do dorky things, you kind of have this first reaction like, 'boy, that was dorky,' and it's easy to be dismissive of it. But if you think about it? People kind of do dorky things because their heart was in it more than their head was in it. And so it just kinda, bam! Happens. And then you're like, well, that was a dorky thing you just did. And everybody laughs about it. And maybe they feel like taking it back. But isn't it kind of fucking awful how we make them wanna take it back? That their heart tripped in front of their head for a minute and made them do something they were _into_ instead of something they were supposed to do?"

"I think, after having this stupid thing occur to me at 1 p.m., it definitely qualifies as premeditated."

"But it occurred to you in the first place and then you probably were like, no, that's stupid. And then you did it anyway."

"Are you saying I'm a dork, but it's okay?"

"I'm saying I hope it was a dorky thing and that your, like, dorky love for me is one of the nicest things that's ever happened to me. And. I still feel like it's the kind of thing that needs to be applied to an event to happen. But I guess it doesn't. I mean, if I think about it, you kind of overflow like this from time to time. I'll just walk in on you staring through your computer screen and you'll be like, 'I love you, I can't believe this is happening.' And that's sort of the same thing. And I guess I'm just saying that it's really, really incredible to," he takes a breath, forks through his food for a moment. "I donno. Be worthy of that. And watch you overflow like this and just fall to dorky pieces because you love me so much. I don't think this happens to regular people. And I kinda think it happens because you know me more than people are traditionally supposed to know each other and love each other. And it just kinda makes me think, well. Fuck tradition, you know? Give me a dork any day. Keep your fucking tradition."

Chuck considers this and finishes his own plate. "I'm glad that's what you got out of it," he finally decides.

"I was working on a house. I'm not sweaty anymore but I'm dirty and I probably stink. I have flowers, but, you know, that only goes so far," Sam smiles and finishes his plate.

"We should shower and then go to bed. You're probably all worn out, too."

"Not too worn out," he promises.

Chuck digs for the mixing bowl and they sort of have to cut the stems for the flowers to not flop over but it ends up complimenting the kitchen table very fucking well, thank you.

And they take a warm shower and Chuck doesn't really know how to properly massage, but Sam gives him directions on how to rub his neck and his shoulders and how to do it harder and it makes him feel better. Makes him fall asleep soft and pliant and happy all under his husband.

«»

A couple days later, Dean calls at eleven at night. For some reason, Sam's stomach flips and he panics because he already knows something's wrong with his brother. He just _knows_ from the tone of the phone's ring, if that makes any sense.

He clamps Chuck close to himself, body suddenly geared into fight-or-flight mode before Dean's finished taking a breath over the line.

"Something happened. Donna left- went south on vacation. She didn't answer her phone for two days and Jody got suspicious. Donna got away, but they still have Jody."

Harried sounds of ammo clacking in the background, bags being zipped and moved around the room, closet doors closing, and knives being sheathed.

Sam starts kicking out of the covers. "Where are we heading?"

"Fucking Florida," Dean bites out. "We're gonna beat you there. Just haul ass as fast as you can."

"Got it," he pins Chuck to the mattress with one hand and climbs out over him. "Details?"

"Cas'll start texting you when we get on the road. No idea what we're up against, we need to get Donna calmed down and figure it out. Josie's got a head start, she was visiting cousins in Georgia. She'll call, we'll let you know. Bring everything."

"Copy that. You good to drive?" the panic ratcheted into Sam's belly makes him wanna bully Dean into handing the keys to Charlie. This is family.

Dean has an extra hard time of it when someone hurts his family and he's that far away.

" _I'm pissed_ ," Dean hisses and hangs up.

Well. Pissed works better than panicked.

Chuck is just sitting up, groggy, shrugging out from under Sam's hold.

"Florida," he reports, dead grim.

"We- well, I mean-" Chuck rubs at his eye. "We don't go to _Florida_ ," he protests.

"Yeah. Jody didn't know that."

"Holy crap," Chuck blinks in wide-eyed fear. Then he scrambles to get up.

"No. I can-"

"You came to bed two hours after me. I'm driving first. We're both packing. Florida's bad news. Don't even think about denying you'll need the help," Chuck shakes him off, takes no shit. Strips his shirt off as he walks into the bathroom.

It's very true.

They don't go to Florida.  
They need all hands on deck.

«»

Sam makes an effort to do as he's told and sleep. He gives Chuck the initial, general directions and Chuck just waves him off because he remembers Dean making a run south from around here before. He knows the way.

He shoves his soft-soft pillow at Sam and points to the corner of the seat. Then drives.

Sam wakes when they stop for gas, but Chuck confiscates his phone and points back at the pillow.

He grabs the back of Sam's head to kiss him and presses him back down. Gets out to fill the tank.

Sam can't manage to drop off until he asks, though. They're pulling out of the station and back onto the dark highway by then. Chuck checked his phone while he was in line to pay. "I need to know if Dean's okay."

"He got shoved into the backseat. Cas is driving now. No updates until Charlie switches seats with Claire. You can both sleep another hour," he says pointedly.

Good enough. He's right.

Sam sleeps until the next stop.

«»

The Winchesters don't go to Florida.

The few times they went with Dad, things were left more complicated than they started. John wasn't socially connected enough to be told what Sam and Dean eventually learned: You don't go to Florida.

That state is too goddamn weird. Florida's so fucked up it has its own hunters. Ones who come from the same unsteady sandbar and know how twisted it can be. Sam and Dean stopped looking for hunts in Florida a long time ago.

After Mystery Spot.

Sam never really wanted to look back and then Dean learned from a hook-up that the hunters who work Florida live there and only work there. Tend to have house boats and own their own motels. They don't bury bodies, they just feed them into the swamp for gators to feast on. They have their own culture.

And if you run into one they'll tell you, in no uncertain terms, that they can take care of it.

That you shouldn't even try.

As far as Sam knows, they're the only hunters with solid territory boundaries. And he read up in the library that, even back in the day, the Men of Letters pretty well left the state to its own devices.

(Of course, it had been phrased more like, "Eat itself alive.")

They haven't minded steering clear. At least Sam hasn't. He spent a lot of lost time there and would be glad never to have to return.

He knows Chuck is going to worry about that.  
His husband knows him very well.

The sun has long been up before Chuck lets anything disturb Sam again.

Then, from the passenger seat, he communicates with the others and reads all the details aloud.

Josie finally got Donna to settle down and sleep. She was frantic. But now Josie's hands are tied by inaction. She was ordered by Charlie not to hunt by herself. She can't even follow Donna's initial footsteps out of her hotel for them. She shouldn't do ANYTHING without backup.

Information stalls out as they wait for Krissy and Aiden to arrive next.

And Chuck twitches in the seat. Silently frets and shoots anxious looks at Sam.

"I'll be okay," he finally says. "I won't be okay if you don't rest, though."

"It's just. Florida," Chuck shakes his head.

"I know. But we have to get Jody back. I'll be fine," he insists. It's not like Gabriel is even around to try to 'teach him lessons' anymore. Chuck knows that. "Unless there's something about Gabriel's death that you didn't write down," he shrugs.

Chuck just huffs and sits back in his seat.

"Sleep," Sam insists.

"I don't want to leave you alone on this."

"So sleep _before_ we get to Florida."

"I love you," Chuck sounds sad.

Sam holds his hand out for him. He scoots close and takes it and yawns. Clutches at his pillow but drops off against Sam's arm.

He never wakes up when Sam keeps talking at him. So he says, "I know. I love you, too. I'm so nuts about you. I won't let anything happen to you. You only ever belong right here. Everybody's gonna be okay because we have the whole team with us. It wouldn't be a team without you and it wouldn't have been possible without you and I'm so proud of you. And I hate that stupid state but being there with you will let me breathe. I wish I had you the whole time," he says to the silence of the car. "If I got thrown back in time by an angel or a trickster I'd hunt you down and grab you early. I wouldn't be able to stay away. I'd save you before your car wreck and-"

Chuck shifts, breathes out against his arm.

"I love you," Sam repeats. "I love you. Every breath of you. I love you, sweetheart. I'll never-ever be far away from you again," he repeats and repeats himself low, a comforting mantra.

He likes to think words mean more in Chuck's presence. Like these ones will absorb into him deep and saturate his soul with Sam's adoration and make him fucking invincible.

Just like Chuck's words soak into Sam and change his whole worldview.

Now if he'd just listen to himself.

«»

Sam's a really big fan of his marriage. He's been rooting for it since... since, like, Chuck kissed him.

He's a fan of _Chuck_.

He does this impressive work wherever he goes. He kicks ass at research and he'll kill a motherfucker if he has to and he writes -- just makes words happen! Where ideas didn't even exist before! They just _come out of him!!_

And when Sam needs him, he's _there_. He's never anyplace but _there_ and Sam just hasn't learned to take that for granted yet.

Ten hours into the hunt as Dean's driving him out of the city and down into the fucking swamp he tries to contain his anger. They have this barest thread to go on and they've split up and this is dangerous and this is Florida and he wants Jody back and he wants to be in bed with his person tonight no matter how dwindling his chances may look.

Chuck is researching his ass off right now. He's got two burner phones and his own, coordinating their efforts and calling the places that are too far-flung for them to visit without knowing if there's an actual lead to follow.

He knows this. He knows how busy Chuck is and he knows that he only has time to be distracted and angry about that because he'll be stuck in this car for 40 more minutes. So he doesn't expect a text directly back, but his _hero_ always surprises him. His marriage is fucking _magical_ , not even joking.

**DRIVING OUT TO THE FUCKING EVERGLADES NEVER TO RETURN BECAUSE THE BERMUDA TRIANGLE IS JUST GONNA SWALLOW US**

**I'll punch a fucking alligator if it even tries. Don't make me come out there Sam.**

He genuinely wants to give Chuck time to do his work. To make the hunt easier for the rest of their family.

He keeps going anyway.

**I dont want to stumble around in the sawgrass after dark this looks like its going to be very uncomfortable.**

**You brought the green bag**

Sam turns around to check. He did. **Y.**

**That have your taller boots. Idk if they have leeches in the swam p but check before you put your other jeans on. U have a whole change in there. Keep ur arms covered.**  
***has**

Sam just shakes himself and fucking marvels for a minute. Never in his life did he think he'd have his spouse secretly pack emergency pants for him.

 **Bring machetes** , the next messages pop up before Sam can respond.  
**Alligator eyes reflect in flashlights so shine on water before stepping near**  
**They feed at night**  
**Rounded snout = alligator. I guess crocs are more angular.**  
**Not that it matters I think teeth are basically teeth**  
**Run in a zig-zag to get away not a straight line**  
**Watch out for snakes**  
This is followed by four different pictures.  
**These are the venomous ones the rest are ok**

Wow.  
Holy shit.  
_Aww!_

Chuck's really worried about him!!

Holy crap.

 **I love you** , he adds every version of a heart emoji he can find.

Chuck only sends a snake emoji in return. Sam didn't know there was one.

He looks out the windshield and watches the steady 85 Dean's keeping on the speedometer.

 **Non-poison ones bite too** , Chuck adds. **Make noise so they know to get out of the way**.

They're supposed to be creeping in to fight the bad guys so that may not exactly be possible.

**Don't think I need to tell u how to start a fire and survive in case u get lost.**

No. They might burn half a mile of dry reeds down but they don't need help with getting one started.

Fuck. What if they actually have to leave the car behind and... walk? Wade out into the muck and the... nature. And teeth.

Holy shit. What if the family has to come find them AND Jody??

They're total idiots.  
Hell? No problem. Purgatory? Easy-peasy.

The fucking swamp? Are you _kidding???_

**YOU MUST SEND ME A PHOTOGRAPH TO REMEMBER YOU BY MY DARLING I MAY NEVER SEE YOU AGAIN**

Chuck actually does send a selfie this time. He's frowning, exaggerated, holding up a piece of paper that says, "If found, return this tall person to the Royal Palms, Stuart FL."

Sam has a small crisis about the crappy motel he left his husband in.  
He sees a vivid image of Chuck Googling all the snakes that might kill him.  
He imagines Chuck packing his tall boots into his bag so he doesn't get his ankles wet.  
He has a solid moment of longing for the familiar hands holding up the sign and the soft breath that would burst against his chest if he could pull his little person into his arms right now, at this moment.

He sets the picture as his lock screen.

 **Please send me another one** , he begs, all joking aside.

It's a long few minutes of nothing. Chuck is busy. He probably worked up the courage to get back on the damn phones and-  
Sam's phone pings.

A picture of Chuck squinting into the mirror of the motel bathroom, phone up in front of him to take the photo, pen behind his ear and glasses on, his whole frame drowning in one of Sam's flannel shirts.

 **I expect confirmation that you are also in one piece** , Chuck requests.

Okay.  
Okay.

Whenever his phone actually has a signal, he sends pictures, too.

His feet in his tall boots, **All toes accounted for**.  
His knees, sitting back in the passenger seat, dry backup pair of jeans on, **Both legs still leech-free**.  
His left hand with his rings because, **Didn't lose them in the dark**.

«»

David Canters finds them three days into the hunt.

All four cars are pulling up to the motel so they can converge on Sam and Chuck's room (to basically seek his wisdom and offer up snacks), but Cas barely lets Dean roll to a stop before he's jumping out of the Impala and drawing his blade.

Dean throws it in park and now Sam's doing the same, wide and crooked across three spaces.

Because the door is open.

It shouldn't be open yet.

He calls out, "Chuck?" and Donna's the one right behind him, pulling the gun they loaned her.

Sam's choking on his own flying heart by the time he rounds into the room, gun up.

Chuck is the first thing he sees, Cas pushing him forward and away from the mess of the broken television, toppled to the floor.

Sam can see boots and something else, at Dean's feet where he's crouching, but he doesn't care.

Chuck comes to him and Sam yanks him close, "You okay??" he demands.

"Fine," he practically growls.

He's spitting fucking angry.

Sam backs them out of the room and into the light of sunshine. Puts his gun away and turns to check him.

He's disheveled but whole. Chuck yanks his collar back into place and straightens out his shirt. Shakes out his hands like he does when he's frustrated with himself.

"You okay?" Sam repeats.

"Yes. Are you guys?"

"What happened? You didn't call-"

"I didn't have time to! It just- he just!! He just fucking kicked in like- like- like _Canada_ and I was across the room and he--" Chuck rubs hard at his forehead. "Then he started talking like, 'tell your friends to get the fuck out' and 'I know who you are' and-"

Dean comes out of the room.

"He's out," Dean reports with surprise. "Out cold. What the hell happened??"

"He was trying to tell us what to do!! I told him you don't tell fucking Winchesters what to fucking do!!" Chuck shouts almost as if he's frantically enraged.

"OKAY," Sam pulls Chuck to the door that Claire left open to the Impala's back seat. She catches up to them and wedges around the door next to Sam. He crouches, makes Chuck sit and breathe.

"Did you knock that guy out??" she grins.

"He was a dick!" Chuck's voice goes shrill.

"Sweetheart-" Sam grabs to pull his fingers from his hair, clamps their hands together.

"He fucking yelled at me and he's waving this gun around!! What are we supposed to do if it's our people?! We can't just call up Florida people and be like 'go get our people'! It's _our people!!_ " Chuck's a confusing mix of outraged and kinda baffled.

Sam turns to Claire. "He's got flip-flops next to the door. Could you-?"

She's still grinning like a maniac, darts off to go get them.

"I need you to try to calm down with me," he pulls to kiss Chuck's hands.

The fight drops out of him with a gust. He whooshes out a few fake breaths before he really catches them and starts to calm down.

Dean comes over, flipping an ID card against his fingers. It's a family name Sam vaguely recognizes.

"What did he want?"

"He wanted us out of Florida," Sam answers for his husband, who's still working on his oxygen.

Claire kicks Chuck's sandals to him. "Thanks," he exhales.

She points at his forehead. "Where's his gun? Did you use the television to disarm him?" she jokes.

There's a barrel-print coming in on Chuck's temple.

"Uh," he exhales. "I was boiling water for coffee. He's the one who creamed the tv. He shouldn't haVE FUCKING YELLED AT ME-" Chuck starts back up again so Sam tugs his hands and gives him the puppy-eyes and he stops. Breathes some more. His pulse drops again. "I threw the gun in the bathroom and locked the door while I was finding belts to tie him up with. I haven't even holy-watered him yet."

"Cas is on it," Dean blinks down at him, unconcerned. "You did good. His face is all fucked up. Serves him right."

"He's the one who went through the tv! I didn't do that to his face. Well- I mean. I did do the boiling water but the glass is his own fucking fault. Well. I guess I did _shove_ him into the tv. And. I uh. I may have broken the carafe on his back. That glass is from me-" he continues to amend and Dean just starts laughing and laughing, turns away cover his face.

Sam finally grins at him. "You didn't pull your blade?"

"I was going for the gun, I really was," he says, earnest, "but the water was right there."

Donna edges over to smile down at him. "Looks like you sacrificed your coffee for the greater good. Come on. Up. I saw a place on the way over."

Sam kisses his head and finds patience enough within himself to send Chuck with her and Charlie. Claire clamors after, into the car with them.

Sam shuts the doors on the truck and the Impala and follows Dean into the room packed with the others. They've hauled the guy up onto the bed, still unconscious.

"Should I?" Cas nods toward him.

Dean shakes his head. He gets the ice bucket, ties the courtesy bag up with the dripping ice inside.

He plops it on the guy's face.

It takes him a minute but he shakes and shocks awake, tries to flail and turn and then starts struggling and spazzing. Aiden and Krissy straighten him out, hold him in place. Josie nods and they drag him, prop him against the headboard.

"The fuck do you think you're doing? Holy shit-" he moves his bound hands to his head. "My fucking face. That asshole fucked my face up!!"

"Looks like you were pretty well a busted-ass chump before," Josie leans back, crosses her arms.

"You scarred yourself for life the minute you broke in here," Dean says. Easy. Calm. "You knew who we were and you did it anyway."

"You're hunting someone else's family, dumbass-"

"I don't care," Dean says, so casual it's almost like he's tired. But this is fresh info. They have no idea what Canters is even talking about. "You should know better than to bust in on another hunter. What was your endgame, anyway, pal?"

Dean's circling through the back to sneak through the front.

"If you idiots don't leave that house alone, he'll turn around and come after you! He grew up here, but his family were all hunters in fucking India. He's heard of you and he'll come after you."

"He'll only know it was us if you already told him," Dean points out.

His eyes betray that he hasn't before he stutters something about a voicemail.

"Uh-huh," Josie rolls her eyes.

"Listen, you're already hog-tied pretty good. What say we just run by, torch the sucker, and leave you on the front porch for him to find?"

"I'm not going near that fucking place!!" he starts to struggle again.

"Or," Sam interrupts, "you tell us where he is and we try to resolve this on the _human_ level," it's safe to assume this has something to do with a monster or more that this guy considers family.

"He won't resolve shit! He got married to my sister and I haven't heard a damn word of reason out of him since! He doesn't think this is _the end_ , you know? Well-- you _should know_. Fucking freaks like you," he glares. "What's dead should stay dead. He just always goddamn insists it shouldn't have to be that way. He was feeding shifters and wolves to them before but it's been dry here. Best he could get was somebody who knew strange."

"Knew _strange?_ " Aiden asks.

"Lure other hunters in," he shakes his head. "Serve 'em up. It wasn't my idea but the family's gotta be fed."

"We don't feed these things, you complete moron. We put them down. It's what we do. It's what he should have done," Sam says, because no matter what they are, bottom line - you don't feed people into the meat grinder. You shut the meat grinder down. It's what this job is about.

"He brought them up in the first place! He made them!" the guy actually looks scared. "What was I supposed to do?? My sister comes to me one day and says, wouldn't you like to meet the rest of our family? I was-- I was just. What family? We came off a damn ship hunting and we always die. We put each other in the-- And he just." Daniel shrugs, at a loss. "He wanted us to have family. I mean. Spirit talking? Whatever. Hoodoo and crystal balls, I get that. I thought he was talking about linking us up with a psychic. But." He swallows dry. "I show up and they're not just- they're _twisted_. They're not just the spirits of family - certainly not _my_ fucking family. _Preta_ ," he says with a tremor in his voice. "A whole house of pretas just... feasting slow. Like vultures eating roadkill around morning traffic."

Preta.

Sam gives Dean the nod. Turns to open the laptop and start packing their other stuff.

And Dean tries. He does. But Canters doesn't give the house up by accident and he won't do it under threat. They work on him for a while as Sam gets their stuff in the truck so they can move motels, crunching glass as he walks in and out.

Eventually they knock Daniel out again and Sam turns the laptop for his brother.

"Pretas. Hungry ghosts. They're doomed to always eat and always starve at the same time. If this guy conjured them out of the spirits of dead hunters from Canters' family, then he fed them on monsters? The thing they may be hungry for is blood touched by the supernatural."

"This guy _created_ ghosts so his wife could meet her dead family," Krissy tries to get it straight in her head, "but he accidentally -- or intentionally? Created _hungry_ ghosts?"

"I don't care why he did it, I don't care about his family, I don't care about shit. They're feeding on Jody, have been for days. We have to find this place. Can't you fucking Facebook his sister to get to his brother-in-law or something?" Dean smacks his arm.

"We'll work on it when we get to the next place," he watches the car pull back up outside.

"I'll start looking, actually," Krissy shrugs and pulls up her social media accounts on her phone.

Sam heads to the parking lot and opens the door for Chuck to step out.

He's carrying a huge, frosty, frozen coffee. "I deserve this," he says.

"Yes the hell you do," Sam agrees. "We're gonna get another room someplace else."

"I figured. Did he give anything up?"

Sam turns to Charlie. "We need your magic. We're looking for Daniel Canter's brother-in-law. Any property he might own."

"We'll get you guys into the place down the road and then work on it." She keeps eyeing him and.

Yeah. Okay. He's trying not to push Chuck into the tiny bathroom and fret over him and worship him and-

There's definitely something he _needs_ from him before they get back to work. But he can handle this for the moment. Chuck took the guy out. He did it. He's fine.

Sam helps him into the truck and hands his drink back up to him. They put Canters in the back seat of the Impala and everyone follows them down the road to a new motel.

Dean and Cas decide to drive Canters to the address listed on his ID to see if they just happen upon any of his family. Charlie and Krissy settle in at the kitchenette table following the threads of fake names to try and find something more solid to move on.

Aiden, Josie, and Claire gather around Chuck when Sam brings all his stuff over to the bed and helps him set back up with the books and phones he was using.

"Canters is one of the big Florida family names," Chuck says.

"I thought I'd heard it before."

"You um. You did when you were here for. Um. A while," he glances back and away.

"You mean when-?" Claire is the only other one there who read the book the whole way through.

"Yeah," Chuck winces a little, lifts his laptop and brings it close. "You were following a lead," he tries to remind Sam. "Came across a preacher. He said there was a guy in your area who'd called him about the same thing. His name was Canters. You decided it was just another hunter to avoid. You were right."

Sam sits on the bed next to him and Josie perches at the other end with Claire. Aiden draws a chair over.

"Pretas," Chuck says. He opens one of the books to a dog-eared post-it page marker. Hands it over. "When Donna told us what they looked like, how long she was there, that's one of the things I thought might match the lore. They look different in some myths, but they've generally got big, bloated bellies and they look stretched out and starving everywhere else."

Sam looks through the pictures, passes the book to Josie.

"So they'd look like modern people, though - the Canters' mom and dad and whatever - only stretched out with big stomachs," she clarifies.

"Right," Chuck agrees.

"The guy- that David guy. He said his brother-in-law _raised_ them," Aiden adds.

Chuck bites his lip and clicks around some of Sam's files on the laptop. "He raised them from the family resting place."

"They have a family tomb or something?" Sam asks.

"Mmm. More like a pond. They feed people to the swamp here, but hunters still burn their own. Only they'd have spread the ashes in the same spot. This looks good," Chuck turns the laptop for him. "A graveyard that sunk under the water table and flooded through the years. There's records of a Canters woman being buried there but nobody else from their family. They might have dumped their other people- their ashes, at least, out over the marsh to keep them with her."

Sam likes it for a starting point. He hands the laptop to Claire. "You guys go scope it out. Tell us if there are any old houses out nearby and call us once you've got the lay of the land. We'll tell you if we have more or meet you out there.

Claire flashes an unhappy grimace at Aiden over her shoulder, but they GPS the nearest crossroad and pile into one of the cars with Krissy leaving her research with Charlie and running out after them.

"I think I found the sister," Charlie announces. "And she's a nurse. I don't think she's in the business except for stitching hunters up. There are a lot of pictures of her in her scrubs at a children's clinic. There are only a few pictures of her with a guy and they're untagged. He doesn't have a Facebook, or any social media as far as I can see..." Charlie keeps clicking around. "She mentions the name 'Sudeep' sometimes, but, honestly, that could be a name for a guy or a girl. He's totally off the radar except for this." She looks up at Sam and then Chuck and then Donna and decides, "We'll go meet her. Maybe we can chat her into giving us a name. If she's wild about her relatives being 'alive,' she'll probably raise the alarm if she thinks a Winchester is nearby."

"We'll stay on the phones," Sam agrees, despite Donna giving them a bit of a _look_.

Charlie is deliberately excluding Sam and Chuck. She is a wise queen.

They see Charlie and Donna off and shut themselves in the motel room.

Chuck moves the stuff and sits on the end of the bed and just waits.

He's wise, too.

Sam comes to kneel between his knees.

Chuck puts his hands to his hair and then thumbs at his dented ear. "I wasn't carrying my blade. I was just across the room. I was close enough to the bed, but. But yeah," he sighs. "I had a gun to my head. I'm really lucky that worked. He told me to shut the machine off. And I just grabbed it and-" he shrugs.

"I'm really proud of you. I want to _hide_ you forever but I don't need to and I'm so proud of you."

Chuck takes another breath and shakes his head because that set of words still doesn't sit right with him. Sam being proud of him is still so strange to him.

He keeps touching Sam's ear and thinking.

"Are you okay? With what you had to do and. With everything?" Sam checks.

A sigh. "I think the motel owner might have given up our location. I um. Yeah. That was. That was a little rattling. But I'm okay. He was a lot bigger than me but. He was a mess when he dropped the gun and protected his face. If he were less of a wimp it wouldn't have worked out so well. Sam?"

"Yeah," he soothes hands over his knees and down to his ankles.

"There's this low-level riot in your head and I can feel it shaking you up. I'm okay, though, I promise. I didn't even step in any glass. I've faced meaner dudes." He pauses to lift Sam's head and make sure to look in his eyes. "I'm okay. Do you need something anyway? We have a while, I think."

He just nods and rises to push Chuck back onto the bed. Kisses the skin he reveals peeling his clothes off. He spoons up, fully clothed, behind Chuck when he has him naked. He reaches down and touches him. Kisses over his shoulder, then watches over it, turning soft touches into stroking his skin and then fingers sweeping into the hair around his cock. Not touching him, waiting to do it. Waiting until he's decided he needs his husband on him. Until Chuck rolls his hips into Sam's hand.

Sam thinks about it, lately. About asking Chuck to fuck him. About laying under him or bending in front of him and it's weird how he'll want it one minute and it will make him blink back to reality the next. He's thinking about it now. About the image of Chuck stroking his back and down to his ass and opening him and pushing in. Hanging onto his hips. He thinks Chuck would make it all about him, which he kinda loves and fears at the same time. It's an overwhelming thought for something that bolts through his center with terror sometimes to be changed into this thing that is _about_ showing him how he can be in charge and how he can be where Chuck loses his mind and comes hard.

These things are still in the process of aligning. He's still trying to carve the burned-black char off the outer layer of this idea.

But when he has Chuck in his mouth, Chuck enters him and Sam is in charge of what he's gonna feel. How fast or slow he'll get off or how teasing or good it will be. Even how risky, considering how he has to pin his hips down and how much trust they each have to give over to hold one another down to take or receive.

He knows what it would be. Remembers the way Chuck kissed and stroked at his ass and licked at him. The white-noise crowding out everything in his head until all he knew was the point of contact where Chuck had him held, just wanting him to feel good. How Chuck was okay with where he had to stop. How it didn't mean he moved away and let Sam figure out his feelings on his own. He kept kissing Sam's skin and settled him back in the bathtub and took care of him while Sam berated himself for not letting Chuck keep going - knowing how good it would have been just didn't change the way his body reacted. But Chuck kept attending to him with such consistency, such surety, that he couldn't be angry at himself for long.

Chuck knows exactly where he's coming from.

The image of himself bent before Chuck, Chuck losing it and closing his eyes and pounding into him - it has to be worked on. Like the bind, it will take a while to acclimate to -- or to maybe accept that there's only so much he can handle.

He wants to give that. He wants to know it for himself and not fear it and fucking seriously enjoy it because-- the blissed-out look of Chuck throwing his head back. Like when he comes just because Sam has come in him.

Sam wants to know. But unlike the bind, this resistance and hesitation is coming from inside his own self. And he has no choice but to be patient with it lest he hurt both of them. They _would_ be hurt if Sam felt fucked up about it. The last thing he wants to do is put silences between them while he deals with his own bullshit in his head.

He wants to tell Chuck what he wants to feel right now. Wants to tell him what he needs and how far they are and that every careful thing Chuck does renews some small piece of life within Sam.

Even if he didn't think parts of him were withered or in need of attention, Chuck knows him too well to leave stones unturned. He's been quietly and methodically caring for every part of Sam while he wasn't exactly paying attention.

Chuck is moaning under his stroking hand now. Reaching back to cling to him.

Sam has to ease away and take off his jacket and shirts and pulls him back down the bed. Kneels there again, wanting Chuck to fill his mouth and keep hold of his ears.

He kisses him, then folds back down and kisses up his cock to the tip and tongues down him. Waits to do more until Chuck has a hold on his head. He stops and hesitates enough times that Chuck seems to get the signal that he should pump into his mouth or bring Sam's head down on himself. They're an off-kilter mess of both options until Chuck is gasping and wet-mouthed and choking out small sounds.

It's when Chuck's hands pull away, land again at the back of his head, a gentle touch over his hair that, nonetheless, urges Sam forward, down deeper onto his cock, that makes Sam reach to grip his thighs and finish him off hard, sucking flat-out until he's coming. Moans around him until Chuck tries to worm away.

Sam reaches down, unbuckles his belt, and thrusts into his own hand, the hand he used to pump Chuck into his mouth. But Chuck sighs out something about him getting up there and drops to lay back. Sam comes up after him and chases as he scoots up the bed. Until Chuck's reached to handle him and jerk him off over his own belly. He comes in loops over his skin and hair and groin and Sam shucks his clothes down with a gasp to press them together all messy. Draws Chuck's hand around himself to his ass. Grinds the last of his hardness off on Chuck with him holding their hips together.

A filthy mess but both of them trying to get air back between too-sweet kisses. Romantic kisses, ones that they don't like pulling away from. Ones that have them rubbing their noses together and staring all soppy into each other's eyes. Kissing cheeks and chins and nuzzling together.

Chuck stays alive for him. Sam feels very smart, suddenly, that, despite his own intentions, he stayed alive long enough to find this. To find _this very person_ and drag him in and not let him go. If he were not alive, Chuck would not be this happy or this well cared-for. Even if he has to break a coffee pot over a goon's spine every once in a while, Chuck would not be better off without Sam.

They're so good at their jobs.

"There's more sunshine in this room," Chuck comments. It seems offhand except that he isn't looking anywhere but at Sam.

There are two windows to this motel room, instead of the standard one. It's on the corner of the lot, looking off across a field at the edge of town. The A/C pumps nice and cold in the additional heat from it and there's more light. No garish flamingo motif like the last room.

And the sheets are cool and clean and keep the both of them lounging there.

Sam realizes it smells neutral to him because this motel uses the same tropical detergent that they've been using since they moved in together.

"Feels very welcoming," Sam comments, not really surrounded by anything but his significant other in that moment.

«»

It has been a very long hunt.

When Chuck lets Sam into the motel room at three in the morning two days after they even last saw each other, he feels beat to absolute shit. He's done with the battlefield. He just wants to be safe again.

Chuck looks alert. Dressed for bed, but like he hasn't done much of that in the past week, either. Staying behind and sticking to the phone isn't easy. It's tense and miserable and it fucking frightens him. No one kicked down the door again, but that doesn't mean any of this is easy. Not one single moment of it on either end.

Oh, god. He's just happy to be _home_.

Chuck lets Sam lock the door behind himself. He even wedges one of the kitchenette chairs under the handle.

Then turns back to him.

Sam must look bad.  
Chuck takes a deep breath, holds out his hands.

When Sam takes them, he walks him backwards into the light of the bathroom. Presses him to the closed toilet seat. He can reach Sam, here, to shove off his jacket and lift his shirts up and off.

He takes Sam's clumsy, uncoordinated hands from his belt and pulls it, himself.

Sam's got streaks of cuts up his left arm from putting his fist through glass. Chuck seems to decide it will work better if he's clean anyway, so he urges Sam up again, and out of his pants, and moves him toward the shower. He turns to get the water warm and Sam leans down and hugs his skinny back. Because he missed it and he hasn't pressed his face to it since he last slept, something like 70 hours ago.

Chuck pushes him back and turns to hold him properly.

"Sammy," he kisses his ear. "Get in and be careful with this, okay?" he drifts a hand over Sam's arm.

He nods.

Chuck gets the kit while he's in the shower. Gets water and digs the graham crackers up. Has them opened and set on the side table when Sam gets out. "They're really all the food we have left that isn't from a vending machine. Sorry."

He shakes his head. He knows that Chuck tried to stay in as much as he could. Tried to keep their room secure. Nobody had a chance to come by and check on him or bring him a bag of fast food or anything.

Chuck had it just as hard as they did. He always does. It is _not_ easy getting left behind, calling in research and hoping you're not too late with it, hearing that someone got hurt and there's nothing you can do about it, seeing no action but biting your nails knowing it's happening somewhere.

Sam sits in a towel, on the bed. The lamp on this side is the strongest in the room. Chuck sits next to Sam and tends to the largest slices. They can deal with the rest later or ask Cas when they see him. When everyone's not hovering over Jody like she might almost-die on them again.

He gets through with a cut and hands a cracker over. Gets through with a cut, hands over a cracker. Cut, cracker, cut cracker. Water. Then he's just done. There's more to do and Sam should get more food in his body but fuck it - Chuck looks about as over it as he is. He keeps holding back from dragging Chuck in and just collapsing on the bed.

Chuck pushes everything to the table. "Lay down with me?"

Sam drops his head. "God, yes," feels like he could cry from relief. "Please kiss me?"

Chuck turns his face up and does his best as Sam basically slumps into him and starts falling asleep. "Lay down, Sam. C'mon. Lay down," he urges him to the side and down and the towel is wet so he grabs and tosses it and tucks Sam in.

He gets the lights and Sam intentionally stays awake, waits to pull him into the center of the bed before he passes out with his head dumped on Chuck's chest.

«»

It's past five before he can't ignore the buzzing of the phone from the bathroom. Dean will think something's wrong if he doesn't answer soon. He's still too tired to open his eyes. He shifts, trying not to groan, getting ready to get up and out of the sheets--

Chuck just tosses an arm out and grabs a few times until he finds his own phone on the table.

He puts a hand over Sam's ear and dials.

"I'm not waking him up," Chuck says, quiet and easy so his voice doesn't roll through him where Sam's pressed against him. "We're fine. We need Cas to fix Sam up, eventually, but we'll call. I can't make him wake up right now, I need him to keep sleeping."

The buzz of Dean's voice is insistent.

"No. I'm saying no, Dean. He'll call you in a few more hours," Chuck whispers, utterly calm. Interrupts Dean as he starts to get feisty: "You and I have different jobs right now. Do not fuck with me," he says so lightly it sounds almost sweet. He hangs up. "Brothers and husbands have different jobs right now," he mutters and Sam tries to smirk but can't even feel himself. Chuck moves his hands to span warm on the chilled skin of Sam's back. The A/C is pumping too low right now but he's not gonna move. He's gonna let Chuck pull up the covers and take care of him. Do husband things. Be warm for him and stave off his brother and let him drop back into sleep.

Fucking Florida.

It's finally lightening outside when Chuck shifts his arm up by the hand and it wakes him. He squeezes Chuck's fingers.

"Sorry. Lay back for me and sleep some more," he urges Sam onto his back. "Your arm. The sheets were bothering you. I moved it all. Sleep more for me. I love you."

Sam does as he's told, but he keeps Chuck's hand, like he did once. It helps him sleep still and calm and believing that's the only dream he had all night, Chuck tugging him around and laying him out and watching over him.

Finally it's, "Sam. Hey, Sam. Sammy I'm gonna kiss you until you're all the way awake, okay?" a palm to the side of his head and an over-rested, underfed lethargy that has him blinking back to the world in slow motion.

"'Kay," he sighs.

So Chuck sets to work, starting at the side of his face and working to his lips and then down to his chin and neck. Sam is rough and unshaven, his face rasping against Chuck's. He starts to realize he fell asleep naked and it's a little uncomfortable. He doesn't like to lay around this vulnerable.

But it didn't bother him until now. Because there's a chair under the door handle and Chuck keeping him safe until--

The clock says it's almost one in the afternoon.

Chuck goes after his mouth until he kisses back and it's been two days and he didn't realize he missed it, and _badly_. It's comfortable like his worn, old shirts and the pillows back at the apartment. It's comfortable and it's home and he missed him so damn much.

He sneaks his hands up under Chuck's shirt and Chuck's grabbing back, fingers in his hair like he just realized how much he missed this, too.

Chuck has to pull back. "I love you so much. Sam, I'm starving but you gotta know I love you."

"Yeah. I know you do. Okay. Okay." He breathes for a moment. "Alright. Functioning."

"Ignore the calls from Dean. I fucking told him he had to chill," he pushes Sam to get up and go get dressed.

Chuck grabs a shower, surprisingly quick, while Sam pulls clothes on and digs in his worn, battered ones for keys and wallet and weapon.

Presses him wet and naked against the wall to take his mouth for another minute before he hands over his clothes and goes to get his shoes for him.

Then he snags Chuck on the way out the door and pulls him close to kiss his head and take him to the passenger side.

They had to spread out, but now that the case is over the others are probably all grouped at Charlie's hotel room near downtown making an absolute spectacle of themselves.

Chuck calls Claire.

"Ugh. Dork. Please rescue me. I'm fucking begging you," he hears on speaker.

"We're actually on our way to the madhouse with you. You need food? We have to stop first."

"Shhh," she suddenly whispers, "oh my god I'm gonna eat it in secret like a squirrel. Yes. What are you getting?" she sounds frantic and hunted out. Like Dean barely let any of them sleep.

Chuck sighs. "Should we just pick up for everybody?"

She growls. Like, seriously growls. "Fine. FINE. I'll ask."

She hangs up on him.

He just kind of frowns at his phone and has a brief, 'This is my life, these are my choices,' sort of look about him.

Sam smiles and stretches a hand out in front of him.

Chuck puts his phone away and grabs it up. Kisses it over and over until they come to a stop at the back of a parking lot and Sam arches over to kiss him for real. They don't tell the rest of the fam where they ended up for another twenty minutes because suddenly Sam's awkwardly strained over in his seat, his mouth demanding, unable to get enough. Eventually Chuck pushes him back over and follows and they only stop because Sam is getting hard and Chuck is getting lightheaded.

"Fuck, sorry," Sam tries to calm his breathing. "You need food."

But two seconds later he's on Chuck's mouth again and now he's rolling his hips up into him.

"We're in a-" he has to get free of Sam's lips again. "We're in a parking lot. We're near food."

But neither of them stop.

It's quiet and breathy and Sam's half-waiting for him to back off, half-craving to drag him down and pull his own cock out until Chuck reaches down to help him.

Suddenly Chuck's plastered to him. "Just want- just want more than food or any other thing," he gasps, "just want you. Just gonna bring you off right here. With traffic on the main drag 15 feet away, the windows open and it's hot in here but my _husband_ is way fucking hotter than anything," he says through a strained voice, and Sam lets loose, grinding up against him now. Holding him down on himself by the hips. Looking at the sweat bead on his neck from up close and already feeling it creep down his own skin. He lets go, briefly, to fumble with the key, restart the truck and blast the A/C.

Grabs at him again. Feels his hot thighs on either side of his own. "So in love with you," he babbles, until it breaks down into parts. "You" and "you" and "love with" and "so into you love you so love you-"

"Okay," Chuck pulls back again. "You have to stop rocking the car 'cause we're gonna get caught," and those are the only ground rules he lays down before he gets Sam's pants open and pushes his hand in there.

Sam yells and that doesn't help with the incognito thing so Chuck just keeps his mouth on him.

Sam's hands kind of grab-grab-fumble at first, but then they get under his shirt and then they wedge down the back of his pants and then-

"Sam. The car."

He stops humping up into Chuck's fist. Again.

"Good. Just let me take care of you. You had such a long week. Just sit, Sam. Just gimme a minute to feel you. I promise you can come soon-"

Sam can't hold down the volume on a moan but it gets covered by a revving engine out on the road. The air coming in the window isn't cool at all. It's wet and humid and Chuck is on top of him blocking the air vents. But he ain't letting go again to roll the window up. Sweat falls to his collar and then Chuck dips his tongue there, mouths his way up Sam's damp skin to his lips. Sam is too-warm and bunched up beneath him. He wishes this weren't so heated and sudden but he wants it, anyway, _bad_. Chuck is determined and he's too-willing.

"You're still so tired. I woke you up too soon. You did such a good job. You deserve more than this. I can't wait to give you more. Right now I want you to just know that I see everything. All of it. And it makes me love you more, all the time. I thought I might get full up of loving you. But there's no ceiling, Sam. It's not a room with you and me cramped in it. It's that world we built. And I'm. I'm fucking _crazy_ about you. So amazing, Sammy. You ready to come?"

"With you kissing me?" he pleads. Sweet fucking hand on his cock, curved around him entirely, slick from him and the way his _thumb presses--_

Chuck comes forward and doesn't let up. Not on Sam's mouth and not on the easy slide of his hand. He fumbles Sam's clothes out of the way as best as he can but then Sam's mouth stops taking and Chuck gives, bites at him and chases his tongue and he can't care about his clothes. He only wants what _his person_ , his one and fucking only, is doing to him.

Sam comes sighing, a fucking _relief_.

Unfortunately he's gonna have to switch out his shirt. Chuck is panting with him, falls against him.

Sam shifts to hug him, mindlessly thanking him. "Love you. God, I missed you. I am so fucking done. I don't wanna hunt for a fucking month. I wanna paint walls and glue stuff."

Chuck snorts.

"I know we're out here, but I should touch you, anyway."

"I can't. I'm not even- I'm so hungry it hurts."

"Shit, sweetheart, why didn't you tell me?"

"I tried to forget about it. I knew you needed me. It's nothing compared to what you've had to deal with this week." He kisses his thumb and presses it to the head of Sam's cock again. Fuck.

He needs to get a few more breaths back.

Finally, Sam opens the door and kisses his head, urges him up and out. He tosses his overshirt off and strips his t-shirt, uses it to wipe them both off. Tucks himself back in.

He stands up and tugs his plaid shirt on.

"Call Claire," Chuck tells him, steps forward to button up his shirt pointedly - he doesn't want to have to deal with the phone again.

That's okay. This is Sam's job sometimes. Especially when he hasn't fed his crab properly.

They decide to email Sam a list of what they want. In the meantime, he tugs Chuck into the bakery next door, first. He sends him to the bathroom to clean up, then hands him a muffin to eat while they're in line at the sandwich shop.

"Am I ordering for you?" he asks at Chuck's ear.

"Yes," he whispers up at him, so Sam leans back down. "Get me one I'll like with beef. And onions. Surprise me."

"'Kay," Sam smiles down at him. Fucking blissful.

«»

Chuck gets the doors and Sam carries everything. He keeps inhaling deep from the lobby to the elevator and all the way upstairs. Chuck smirks at him. "Yeah. Hotels smell different."

"I can't get enough of it," Sam admits, kind of... ashamed of himself.

"It's the cleaners they buy in bulk as opposed to the motel ones that come from the dollar store. Covers up the BO."

Sam inhales deep again.

Claire whips open the door before Chuck can knock and claims one of the bags from Sam. "Food!" she calls, and the vultures descend. Everyone pours out of the bedroom and the adjoining suite where the dual doors have been opened so they can freely float between.

Cas blinks big, owlish eyes from one doorway and disappears back inside.

Dean makes sure Jody and Donna get their orders first and they can hear Donna's raucous laugh.

Chuck carries a bag rolled up tight with his and Sam's food and they claim a couch to themselves before everyone else settles.

Claire sits on the floor between their feet and devours her fries immediately.

Sam comes in close to whisper at his ear again. "You're not tired of cheese this week, right?"

"No, it's fine," he unwraps his sandwich and pokes through the contents. "You did good. Thanks."

Sam smiles against his head and kisses his face before digging in to his own. He got two things Chuck might eat in case he didn't like one of the surprises. It tends to work out well - Sam always just eats the second option. He places his packet of chips on top of Claire's head and she snatches it off and yanks it open.

"I am blessed with potatoes," she says with her mouth full.

Wow. The rest of them really need Chucks in their lives. They're exhausted.

Finally Dean comes in for his own food and side-eyes his brother as he gets it, twists the lid off a new bottle of soda.

Sam tries to ignore it for a while until Dean drops into a chair opposite them and grins like an ass.

Sam sighs and they have a silent conversation that aims at getting Dean to keep his mouth shut and probably won't work.

So, yeah: Sam's all beat up, bruises finally surfacing and coloring, not to mention all the cuts and scrapes under his clothes, but his sappy smile won't go away.

Dean needs to do his winking and nudging and, for some reason, make fun of Sam for so obviously getting himself laid.

Chuck's pretty good about ignoring the exchange. He could smack Sam on the thigh and get him to straighten out, but instead he leaves it. Waits until Dean looks away to smile quietly up at Sam, encourage his soft romanticism. He doesn't always like to tell Sam to pack it in. He likes for them to be dorky together sometimes.

Sam finally rolls his eyes at Dean and attends to his own food, starts chatting in disconnected Latin with Claire. She just keeps talking about her love for potatoes.

He presses his lips to Chuck's ear again, after a while. "We're gonna kidnap her and let her sleep. Dean will just," he waves a hand.

Chuck nods. "Most definitely," he says, chewing.

Claire's singing Christmas songs under her breath by now, having pulled apart her sandwich, eating the individual components.

Donna wanders out all cheery in her vacation dress and picking through the drinks in the fridge. "Every time I see this six pack in here it makes me want a margarita," she declares. "I think I'll go hit the pool and order one!"

"Oh my god I forgot there's a pool!" Josie says and grabs for Krissy's sleeve. "We're in, right?"

Krissy shrugs. "Don't have a suit," she says with her mouth full.

"Oh, who cares?!" Donna waves it off. "Jump in anyway. You brought other clothes, didn'tcha?"

The girls grin and scarf down the last of their food.

"I bet Jody could use the sun," Donna declares. "Castiel!" she hollers. "You're coming with!"

Claire shrinks into the couch and grabs at Sam's jeans but Donna doesn't request her presence. Suddenly everybody gets crazy for the idea of swimming around and wearing themselves out even more, Aiden prodding Dean to go on a booze run for the rest of the underage scoundrels among them and Charlie is bouncing around the rooms, now, running to find her shoes and go steal more towels from a cleaning cart in the hall.

Chuck looks up at him to gauge his interest, but, no.

He tugs on Claire's ponytail. "Wanna see the other side of town? It's, um, quieter out th-"

"Yes," she hisses before he can even spin something out.

After some general discussion, the group breaks apart for the corner store or the pool.

Chuck shoves his garbage into a bag and goes to see Jody alive for himself. Snag Cas before he helps her down to the pool.

Castiel smiles when he comes to greet Sam. "It's a relief to be able to actually fix something without much effort," he says, wry. "The damage done to Jody-"

"We know, man. You're always doing your best," Chuck assures him.

"May I?" he asks the both of them.

"Please do," Chuck says, relieved.

"Totally," Sam agrees and sits forward for Cas to tap his forehead and zap all the cuts and aches away.

Chuck loses a little of that tense look when Sam's healed up and they're on their way back with Claire already zonked out in the tiny back seat.

But he still looks stressed and that opens a pit of worry in Sam's gut. Like maybe Chuck's about to tell him he can't take this anymore. He wants to stay home and Sam's gonna have to go back to traveling without him.

It's a closed and scary look. Controlled. He's waiting to say something. He wanted Sam rested and healthy and fed. Now he wants Claire to get sleep and for them to have a little peace before the regrouping.

He might wait.

He might wait until after the kids have passed out, drunk and worn from hunting and swimming. Dean finally letting them rest. Might wait until after they've had a collective breakfast and decided where to all head next.

If he waits that long, he'll be terrified of speaking by the end of it. He won't say anything until it breaks out of him later. It will hurt them both. Shutting up and keeping quiet is never a good idea for either of them.

When they get back to the motel, Sam lifts Claire out of the back and Chuck gets the door in front of him again.

They tuck her in on the couch, plug her phone in and set it on the floor. And Chuck looks like he's gonna get his laptop, so Sam jots out a note for Claire and goes to grab his hand, instead.

They leave one of the keys for her and close the door quietly.

"Starbucks."

"Oh thank fuck," Chuck sighs.

When Sam starts the truck again, Chuck starts to talk. Then stops.

Pretends it didn't happen.

Sam drives around to the back of the lot. Parks but doesn't cut the engine. It's too damn hot not to have A/C right now.

"Please just tell me."

Chuck licks his lip. Looks to the trees and considers.

"You're fed up with this," Sam assumes aloud.

"No," he's quick to deny. "Sam, I will never- I couldn't yank you away from--" he pauses. "It's just." And he bites his lip, can't seem to keep going.

"I didn't see you for-"

"Two days!" Chuck bursts. "And I know how fucking pathetic and needy that sounds and I know I should figure out how to enjoy my time alone again and that you won't, always-and-forever, wanna be stuck at my elbow but I don't know how to do that right now. I missed you and I had to sleep without you and I missed you and when I sleep alone-- I can't. I can't anymore. I'm such, like, a whiny, clingy bitch and I know damn well how to function without you but I get so empty when I have to after fucking _hours_ of stressing and imagining how beat-up you're gonna look when you get back and-" he scrubs at his eyes, angry with himself because he hates his overflowing-emotion thing.

And Sam loves it so much.

But he didn't mean to make him sad and desperate by not showing up.

This is a boundary.

24 hours is probably the boundary he shouldn't cross anymore. That should be a new limit.

He reaches for Chuck to pull him over again but he puts a hand up. "I'm okay. I'm whining. It's nothing."

"It's not 'nothing' and you're not being bitchy. Keep talking."

"I don't want to." He scrubs a hand down his face, keeps his eyes on the windshield. "I don't have the stressful part of the job, I'm still just. I donno. Seeing stupid memories and thinking the worst."

"And being lonely when I'm gone too long," he says what he won't say for them both to hear aloud.

Chuck cringes. "I could use some caffeine. I'll have more of a brain."

"You were alone for years. That wasn't easy then and it's not easy now. It's worse now because I said you won't have to be alone and I didn't-"

"It's not your fucking job to-"

"I say it is. I wanted that job," he doesn't take no for an answer. He unbuckles Chuck's seatbelt and tugs at his elbow just once.

He fills the car with a deep sigh. "I'm not actually a sad, incapable, lonely little critter with-"

"I want to talk with you. Can you come over here, please?"

Chuck shakes his head but he climbs back over and straddles him again.

"I don't need to dump this on you. It requires a little fucking maturity and patience and I just-"

"You're incredibly patient and whatever about maturity. This isn't about that. This is you getting stressed because you can't sleep alone. Especially not knowing that I'm out there somewhere not sleeping and maybe getting my ass kicked. You feel that deeply and you can't leave me alone in the world and I shouldn't expect you to just accept it in silence when I don't report in."

"You _do_ report in, I was texting you and had everyone calling the whole time and-"

"But you didn't see me, you didn't feel me, and you already went through years of your life that way. Asking you to put up with full days of it is unacceptable anymore. That's just where the line falls."

"There's no lines!! There's just me complaining!!" Chuck yells, too-loud in the small space.

"If I said I was bothered by you writing for six hours without stopping to eat and talk to me, you'd start setting alarms to take breaks every two hours. You wouldn't consider that asking much. I don't consider this asking much."

"This?"

"You're never gonna have to go to bed without me there again. I won't go a full day without you again. That's not too much to ask. It's reasonable for you to need access to me. You think I didn't miss you like crazy when I couldn't see you? Sweetheart, I love your words and the texts keep me alive - I'm not exaggerating about that. But I do need you. Look what happened to me by the end of the hunt without you. I was awake too long, I was worn to hell, I was collapsing and the others were still going hours later-"

"You and Dean started before everyone else-"

"It doesn't matter. It was a bad decision. We're not in charge anymore. Charlie doesn't tell us to act better because we're stubborn. But I've got a husband whose job it is to tell me that there's a line I can't cross without stressing us both out. So. One day? 24 hours?"

Chuck focuses on a point past his shoulder. "We don't need to-"

"Twenty hours."

"Sam."

"Fifteen."

"Twenty-four! Fine! Fuck it!" he tosses his hands and finally meets his eyes.

This didn't help. "You're still stressed."

"I don't like being one of your limits! You don't need weaknesses in your line of work, Sam. You can't open yourself to exploitation because of me."

"How is this opening myself to exploitation??" laughing would not help right now so he's careful not to.

"You-" he sputters. "I don't know! I'm making you weaker."

Sam drops his head against the seat back. "Getting the shit beat out of me makes my body progressively weaker. Skipping out on sleep makes me mentally weaker. Being defeated or making cases last longer than they need to because I don't listen to the guy who looks out for me? That makes me weaker. Those are actual problems. I get, like, spiritually weaker when I push myself and my friends and my family push me but I've got nobody by my side to help me push back. Those are true weaknesses. Since I need you, I'm inherently stronger when you're actually with me. When we make contact and when we can actually set hands on each other." He moves his own up Chuck's back and tugs him in.

He slumps. "I don't want you to have to change because of me."

"You know, when I hear that bullshit one too many times, it really makes me feel like you're not listening to me," he points out.

It breaks the pent-up hurt and stress out of Chuck. It snaps out of the lingering resistance in his shoulders and he sobs. "That's so sad!" he wails. "I didn't mean to make you think that!"

Sam tugs him close and lets him cry and strokes his neck. "I don't want you to cry, I'm sorry. But you gotta understand-"

"We both change for each other," he knows, cries the words. "I'm sorry!!"

Sam can't help but smile and kiss along his jaw. "See? Two days without me and you forgot that. That's why we can't do more than 24 hours anymore. It's for both of us."

"Oh fuck. I'm sorry," he blubbers. "Oh my god, this is giving me a headache," he cries harder.

"Sshhh," Sam holds him and sways him and can't really conceal that he loves every fragile moment of it. It's a hundred times the relief of one of his and Dean's tense truces where they know they'll both slip back into lying or hiding shit from each other. This honestly makes a dent in both their lives. This is real. He won't have to remind Chuck a third time. He'll learn. Chuck loves to learn with him. Sam loves to grow with his husband. And maybe it should feel like being caged or growing into confinement but it feels like he just made another marriage vow, instead. Like Chuck just let him take possession of another little piece of his life that will travel with him to every far-flung adventure his wedding ring ends up, on his hand and saving people, hunting things, learning, teaching, growing, breathing, traveling, sleeping, dodging bullets, and breaking curses _with_ him. He'll still get to drag Chuck along and at least once every 24 hours he will hold his home in his arms and synch their heartbeats and gain the energy to rejoin the fray or at least be told he's gotta pass his burdens to someone else to share. Or one of the kids so they can save a world that's gonna belong to them when the Winchesters finally bite dust.

Sam needs to be told these things. It makes them feel real and good.  
Chuck needs to say them. It makes him feel like he makes a difference in their lives.

Sam calms him down and he begs to be forgiven. "There's absolutely nothing to forgive. We both just need more rest. Let's get coffee. Let's get ice cream," he rubs Chuck's back.

"I want to stay here," Chuck sniffs.

"We'll come back and let Claire sleep and we'll sit on the bed and you can climb all over me. We'll watch tv. We'll play on the internet."

"I love you."

"I love you loads and loads," he gets a napkin for Chuck's wet face.

"Coffee."

"Coffee. Ice cream. Or how about snow-cones? I saw a nifty place that sells flavored popcorn and snow-cones. Snow-cone date."

"Okay." He lounges against Sam and curves the ends of his hair out, pushes it over his ear. "We can bring popcorn back for the damn dolphin."

"Sure. Let's go on our date, okay?"

Chuck touches his neck for a while longer. "Love you," he whispers.

"Significant Other. You're doing everything right. Don't let your anxiety tell you something I didn't say. Alright?"

Chuck closes his eyes and nods. "That's a good point."

Sam palms his head. "You're the best part of my day. I had two days without you. You owe me at least two stories and I owe you at least two naps and a handie."

"Oh," Chuck scoffs. "We're not going there. If you owe me a handie there's some other stuff we owe each other."

"Like what?" he grins.

"Well there's a goddess of the underworld who swooped in and deprived me of reciprocal blowjobs if you wanna start at the top."

"I have some work to do, is what you're saying?"

"Only if we're counting," he smiles and lines his fingers up atop Sam's mouth.

He opens up and snags one. Bites it.

"You need me before we go?"

He's not great at _not getting hard_ with Chuck on top of him like this. But, "I can wait until we have our room back. I have a whole list of stuff to do for you, now. I'm a pretty lucky dude."

«»

Chuck gets "mystery flavor" because he likes surprises.

It is blue. Bright fucking blue.

He takes a bite, says, "What."  
He takes another bite, says, " _What??_ "

Sam laughs at him. "Best approximation?"

"I don't know. I think I was expecting blueberry from the color but it's..." he reaches for a descriptor, "It's??? Vanilla coconut? Maybe?"

Sam digs into his. It's supposed to be "mixed berry" and is dark purple.

"What does it taste like?"

"Like a strawberry and a raspberry kicked my ass. I was expecting blueberry in there somewhere... and it's... barely there? Maybe blackberry." He eats more. "I guess we both got conned out of blueberry," he says with a numb tongue.

"This is fucking strange," Chuck keeps at his for a while. "Wanna switch?"

They do.

"No, actually?" Sam changes his mind and hands it back. There's a weird background sort of too-sweet super-fake vanilla to a fully-coconut blast. It's just not his style.

"Mmf." Chuck agrees. "I'm not that wild about raspberry."

"At least not this week."

Chuck allows that to be true.

Sam leans across their wobbly table. There's only one other couple there with two kids. "Now I'm worried about how crazy the popcorns are gonna be," he confides.

"Probably gross. We have to try them all."

Sam glimpses something. "Oh. Fuck. Stick out your tongue."

Chuck does. It's incredibly blue.

Sam sits back. "That's intense."

"Stick out yours," Chuck requests. "Niiiice. You look like you've been eating packets of grape Kool-Aid."

"There's a collectors tin with six flavors of popcorn. It looks big enough for us all to try," Sam points.

Chuck squints to read. "But those are only six different cheese flavors. I want the whole rainbow. We'll assault the others with the ones we don't want before we go home."

Sam considers the array of colorful bags, individually labeled. "I wonder if it means something that some flavors are cheaper than others."

"Probably. Or it could be by weight. Or it could be they're stale," Chuck makes a face.

"I wanna get the tin," he insists. He wants it. He's just _feeling it_.

"Get the damn tin but I wanna try the ones that are obviously going to be an abomination before man and god because that's what I'm about, baby."

"I'll go ask what the different prices are for," he offers. "Which colors am I getting?"

"ROY-G-BIV, Sam."

"I don't think we can even carry that much."

"Then get the three most fluorescent. Except for yellow, that one's just butter. But definitely the bright red. Maraschino cherry popcorn sounds fucking certifiable and I want it in my mouth."

Sam finishes off his snow-cone and drains the melted bit at the bottom, sucks his lips and gets up to smack a purple kiss on Chuck's face.

"Am I beautiful?"

"Gorgeous."

«»

Sam gets more than he was going to because when he starts actually reading the names of the colors-- or. Well. Flavors.

His mind is blown.

There's the gross ones with awful colors. He gets Chuck the Key Lime, cherry, bubblegum, and orange crème, but also goes for the bacon-jalapeño, curry, cinnamon-sugar, ham-and-cheese, and peanut butter. Chuck's totally in on that. The weirder the better. Though they both agreed not to get spearmint.

The staff measured out bags of whatever they had fresh - seemingly because they had nothing else to do - and Sam got the tin on top of it because, if they make themselves sick with all the other flavors, Dean and Cas will be happy to devour and report back with criticism of the cheese flavors.

They let Claire sleep, but her phone goes off after she's only been out for five hours.

They were trying to be quiet with their popcorn but it's all over the table.

"What... in hell is that?" she blinks over after silencing her phone.

Dinner is utterly ruined that day.

(Mostly because they can't taste anything other than goddamn fake-pink-popcorn-bubblegum for the rest of the night.)

«»

The beach is eight minutes away. Charlie calls and Claire's in and he and Chuck must be fuddy-duddies because no one even asks them.

Charlie comes to pick her up. Actually snaps her fingers and does a 180. "Crap. You guys didn't want to come, right? You didn't want to come," she waves her own idea off and they scream back out of the parking lot, leaving Sam there, blinking.

"They could have asked you, at least," Chuck looks apologetic.

Sam looks down at him, huddled in his hoodie despite the heat, hanging back in the room so the humidity outside pretty much only defrosts his toes from the A/C pumping in the room.

Right. That wouldn't have happened.

"You can call," he persists. "You can tell them- look, I'll even come with. I'll sit on the sand or something. Or. Not, I mean. I could. Hang back," he crosses his arms tighter and shrugs.

He takes a deep breath of the too-moist air and turns to usher Chuck back inside.

"I have two days to make up for."

Chuck narrows his eyes. "You can go, Sam. You can have fun."

"How do you know I don't have fun planned?" he locks the door and pushes Chuck to the wall. Pulls his arms apart and steps into them to get wrapped up.

"Sam. You can go to the stupid beach and you can come back in two hours and _then_ we can-"

Sam cups Chuck's head in both hands. Puts his thumbs over his lips. "Or I can go to bed with my husband at a decent time after making love to him until he realizes he's the only thing on my mind at all today. At. All."

Chuck watched over him this morning. He must have gotten at least some sleep before his stomach woke him, but Sam wouldn't have slept so sure, while naked and drained and fresh from battle, if he hadn't felt protected and safe. Chuck did that for him. Kept his ravaged arm from being irritated and kept his brother from disturbing them. And the threat in the air may have been left in the ash of the house they set ablaze, but it hadn't felt less tense until Chuck took him in his arms and laid him down.

In return for this invaluable peace of mind and care and love and attention, all Chuck needed was something he couldn't even bring himself to ask aloud: he just wanted to know that they'll stop spending whole days away from each other.

That's all. Chuck never asks for much. He doesn't want to take things away from Sam.

And here Sam is wanting to toss everything else off and dive into their little quiet.

"I don't wanna go to the beach. Maybe I'll drag you out before we leave the state. Just so I can see the ocean and you can commune with your fellow crabs," they grin at each other and Sam kisses his lips between his thumbs. "But I don't wanna go now. I want you more than anything. I want you connected to me. I don't want to breathe without you. I was without you for long enough. Not just these past weeks - my whole life, Chuck Winchester. The whole rest of my life I'm supposed to be able to reach you without stretching," he pushes his hands back into Chuck's hair and kisses him deep.

Chuck's fingers are soft and light at his neck. Push back into his hair and draw through it. He pulls back to ask, "Can I see something? Take your shirt off for me?"

Sam tosses his shirt off. He never replaced the one under it. It's too hot in Florida for layers.

"You didn't show me. After Cas fixed you up," he explains, running his fingers down Sam's arm, free of cuts and scrapes and bruising and blood.

"I'm okay."

"That's all I want," Chuck shakes his head. "All I want is for you not to be hurting and to feel whole and good. You're so good," he says for the thousandth time, breathy and wondering and worshipful.

"I'm only- only, only, only good right now because I'm not marching into another apocalypse. Because you set my family up to help me with my burdens and took away my reasons to drown my sorrows-- to even _have_ sorrows. You gave me a home and a family and a marriage-" Chuck begins to protest, "- and whatever you didn't build yourself? You stabilized. You made it all more real. You make it matter more every day. If I'm good? I'm good for you. Because of you. I'm gonna be smart enough to keep you."

At a loss, Chuck says nothing.

"And let's get real," Sam smiles, "that's not _all_ you want for me. You wanna give me stuff all the time and make my life perfect and give me your body every time I get the slightest bit hard."

Chuck rolls his eyes at himself. "I benefit from it."

"Yeah." He presses flush to him and accepts another kiss. Knows that Chuck can feel him exactly like he said, getting hard for him.

"Whew," Chuck says when he pulls back. "I think no mouths on genitals tonight after the jalapeño popcorn."

Sam drops forward to laugh into his neck.

"We should wash our hands."

"Brush our teeth."

"Maybe I'm just not adventurous enough."

Sam laughs again. "No. I definitely want you in my mouth and I'm absolutely not going to scald you doing it."

"I appreciate that, thanks."

"I want, like, a list of the stuff you want from me," he mouths at Chuck's neck.

"Just touch me," he moans. "Wait. Teeth first."

"Okay," he gasps, already rolling his hips.

"Seriously."

It takes a few deep breaths and some separation for them to move toward the bathroom.

He gets his nails really fucking clean. Not a shade of food dye to be found. He fucking flosses. He tongues at his teeth individually to check for any bits of kernels. He brushes a second time.

Chuck leans back and gives him a funny look but then Sam pushes him up against the open door, drops to crouch and opens Chuck's pants.

"Tile, Sam. Your knees-" he starts to protest.

Sam doesn't fucking care. He's now been thinking about washing all other flavor out of his mouth, swallowing around Chuck's cock and getting his hair grabbed.

He moans around him until he's hard and sucks at the head, wanting the familiar taste of him.

The door rattles with Chuck's confined jolts. Sam holds him in place by the ass, then holds and directs his cock, remembering the heat of Chuck's grip on him in the car this afternoon. Rolling his wrist the same way and trying to share the experience with Chuck.

He pulls away, shakes his hair out of his eyes and asks, "Have you ever wanted me to do something for you? Something we haven't done?"

Chuck just whines, "Please."

Sam runs his hands, wide, up his thighs. "You don't want me to do anything special?"

Chuck gulps for air, almost visibly grasps for a thought. "Oh god," he fumbles for Sam's shoulder when he strokes again.

"Will you do something for me?" he pleads with his eyes then lips at the head of Chuck's cock.

"Fucking anything," bursts from him.

So Sam gets up and takes the rest of his clothes from him and turns him. Tosses him on the bed a little because he likes it, even though it makes Sam flinch to do it consciously.

He keeps his own boxers on, but only those and nothing more. 

Grabs Chuck's pen up from the table and comes to straddle him.

Sam pumps his hips against him for a while, not too much direct friction, more teasing. Then he places the pen in Chuck's hand.

"Write on me. Please?"

Chuck reaches up to be kissed, so he leans down and Chuck makes a mess of his mouth and mindlessly clutches the pen.

"For real," he clicks the pen and positions it in his hand. "I want you to."

"I don't know what to write," he pants. Reaches with his other hand to just hold Sam solid through the fabric.

"Please," his voice kinda falls to pieces and he can't help but pump into his hand some.

Chuck bites his lip, thinking and thumbing at him. He writes on Sam's thigh because it's right there at hand. It says, **husband**.

"Sign me," he requests.

Chuck lets go of him to hold his other thigh. "You'll have to hold still."

But he starts signing and-

Laughs. "Um. I've never had to sign my real name before. I don't know what my new signature looks like."

Oh, god. "Decide on me. Practice."

Chuck blinks and swallows. Hesitates but then puts pen to skin again. Signing is different from individual letters pressed into his skin.

He's never had to officially be Chuck Winchester before. There are no documents filed away anywhere with his new name all properly certified and acknowledged.

"I don't-- can I. Can I try again?"

"Yeah," _I want you to know who you are_.

He sits up some. Moves the tip of the pen to Sam's side. Tries out a few different Ws. Blinks at his name, as he sees it, with a softening expression. Touches his fingertips over it and tries again.

The one that comes most naturally gets pushed up on the far end, the left-handed slant to it unique but starting to look familiar by the time he runs out of room and has to move back down to his leg.

It's everything Sam didn't know he wanted.

He grabs the pen out of Chuck's hand and tosses it aside. Presses in to kiss him. "Good job, sweetheart. I love that so much."

"I need more practice, I guess."

"You can practice all you want. You should know how to be the you who belongs right here. You want me inside you?"

"Yeah," he eases back, unusually pleased. "I should have you sign me. Of course," he shrugs, "you could do me one better?"

Sam shucks his shorts and comes back to arrange Chuck's legs around himself. "Whatever you need."

Chuck waits until he's folded and pressed comfortably beneath him, having his skin stroked. "Shoulder hickey? Please?"

"Can I make it big?" he's fucking tingling with warmth in the chill of the room. "All messy and purple like I got 'mixed berry' on you?" he grins, starts sliding against his ass, slow and pressured.

"Yeah. And I wanna be achy after this. I wanna be well-used. It's better than having you sign me. I like knowing how much you lose it when you're in me. You totally own my ass."

Sam can't stop thinking about him saying that, not even after he loses it, as he falls away to find the ink from his husband's name all over the both of them.

«»

He wakes in the morning to Chuck carding through his hair.

"You know where I'm gonna take you today?"

Sam smiles and pulls his hand down to kiss his palm. "The beach?"

Chuck shakes his head and pushes close. Comes to whisper in his ear. Kisses there first and then says, too seductive for sense or reason:

"Kennedy Space Center."

" _No way_. Holy shit. Really?!"

"Absolutely, you amazing dork," he shakes his head and grins and Sam sees the goofy lost-in-love grin on Chuck's face that he's more used to seeing in the mirror.

Sam taps his nose. "Keeping you. Keeping you for a long time."

"There will probably be walking tours. I need water and sunscreen."

"And a hat and iced coffee, I gotcha. I can do this," Sam gets up and crawls over him. "We can _really_ go to NASA??"

"We can really go to NASA," Chuck lets his arms be drawn up. "Do you wanna share science or you think the kids won't be interested?"

"Everybody's invited but I'm not waiting on them. I'm driving to NASA in like thirty minutes. That's all the warning they get. I'll make the call, but hang on, we're sharing the shower."

«»

When fall arrives in Nebraska, Chuck gets an email. He requests that they drive up to the house immediately.

He helps Sam close the gate and then throws his hood back and heads into the house, bee-lines it upstairs.

"Chuck," he calls after him, and it doesn't slow him down.

Sam grabs one of their bags and closes up the car to follow.

"Chuck?" he calls again. There's no answer, but he hears squeaking like shoes against tile. It comes from the bathroom.

Chuck just turns wide eyes on him when Sam finds him.

"Jody let them in for us," Chuck says after Sam sets the bag aside and comes to stand next to their huge new tub. He's sitting in it, stretching his arms in all directions over and over to see how wide it is.

It's fucking awesome. It's so big.

Sam steps over the side and sits opposite. It's nice to see it in real life. It's huge, it's got places to sit and places to rest sprawled and little nooks he can plant his feet and not slip while Chuck sits on top of him. It will live directly under the window.

Sam can sit wedged in like Chuck or he can let his legs sprawl down and his shoes just touch him wedged at the other end. Chuck has to crawl a couple feet up to sit between his thighs. He sits in the center and he can reach both sides, but he can't reach the far ends, not by a longshot.

"Is this exactly what you need?" he finally looks to Sam for approval. "I could swim in here. How do you fit? We need it to be right for both of us."

He leans back and slides his arms over the edges. He can laze and lounge. "This is fucking amazing."

Chuck crawls the rest of the way to sit between his legs. He leans back, reclines against Sam.

"I never took baths before you. Now I can't wait to relax in here. In the morning. And wait for you to come around and warm the water back up and get in."

"I don't remember why we even started. It was just something I'd never done with somebody." He pulls Chuck, gets him comfortable and cuddles him. "I can't wait. This is gonna be incredible." This is something he only ever-ever did with Chuck. He never took baths, either. Now, he could lounge naked in the water with Chuck any time. It's sort of an alternative to naps or sex. It's sort of a part of their whole relationship's landscape.

He takes that warm-water promise and fills his feelings with it and pushes it through the bind and Chuck smiles and huddles closer, closing his eyes.

"We need locks on the doors, now," Sam decides aloud.

"So we don't risk anybody stealing our tub?"

"Yeah." It's absurd. He doesn't care. "We need to get Charlie up here. Install the last of the plumbing and all the tech to keep people out. I think it's time. It's not just beams and stones and pipes anymore. It's. It's already _more_."

"I could sleep here," Chuck murmurs.

"Not yet. There's no water for you yet, crab," he whispers in Chuck's ear and rubs at his arm, his back.

"I'm gonna be in charge of the yard. That's okay, right? I know we're building the workshop later, but I'm gonna plan the yard around that."

"Yeah," he's surprised. "Sure."

"I've been talking about it with Cas. We need an herb garden for spell stuff and whatever, but he thinks he can cleanse some of the car fluids out of the soil so we actually get results. He's gotta tap a _creation_ thing in himself, though, and it makes him a little uncomfortable. So there might be trees and everything. Life. He just has to lay down a serious angelic vibe and he's kind of." Chuck shrugs.

"Reluctant, yeah," that makes sense. "Does Cas call and talk to you?"

"We text a lot. He really likes emoticons."

"Emojis."

"Whatever."

Sam hesitates a moment but asks, anyway. "Has he said anything about heaven to you lately?"

Chuck takes a deep breath. "He doesn't feel too great ever since we locked up another angel. I wish he'd stop talking to heaven entirely but he doesn't feel like he can." Chuck considers for another moment. "I wish Dean and Cas trusted each other more. I wish they understood that they get each other and they'd stop second-guessing that. They don't have to feel like they're one, dumb, offhanded remark away from destruction at all times. It's not that precarious. It may feel that way but. I just can't believe Dean doesn't understand yet."

"Doesn't understand what?"

"Cas woke up right in front of him. He's like a baby bird. The first thing he sees every time he really wakes up is Dean and that's imprinted at the center of him, now."

Chuck never even saw Cas when he was "Emmanuel." Or after he escaped Naomi's influence. And, still, that fits with every incarnation of Castiel they've ever reacquainted with.

Chuck doesn't even have to have seen the entire scope of all their years together to pinpoint what feels like the truth. Cas keeps waking up in front of Dean. Dean keeps waking up in front of Cas. It's happened so many times, now.

"If you're worried about Dean, then worry about Dean saying something he doesn't mean. I find it really fucking hard to believe that Cas would choose anything else over him. He may be sad sometimes, but we all are. I woke up in front of you and you know it's your job to keep hold of me. Ever since I detoxed, you've taken that as your job. This many years in, we shouldn't have to tell Dean what his job is. He knows. He has to stop acting like someone can replace him. He has to do his whole job, all the time," Chuck declares. Almost like he's kinda passionate on the subject.

"These kids once told us about Dean-Cas slash," Sam comments.

"Those people paid ATTENTION!!!" Chuck yells.

"Unlike the people who never make it to the end of _Paradise Lost_? Or 'Swan Song'?"

If pressed he would admit that he says it just to hear Chuck scream in frustration again. The unfinished walls absorb the sound.

Sam kisses a smile against his mouth. He intends to tease him a little more.

But this feeling keeps batting wings inside his throat.

Chuck's been writing. He doesn't really want Sam to watch him work, anymore. His body language says as much and Sam doesn't want to press him to say it in _plain_ language, so he really just gives him space when he's working.

And Chuck should have that. And they've got plenty of time for other things.

And, on his end, the hunting still feels important.

He's just a little worried that Chuck is moving on into this next phase of homey things and Sam is still too busy sweeping up the world. They may sit still when they work, when Chuck writes and Sam researches and translates and makes lesson plans. But it feels like Chuck is marching forward and he's still got one foot in the sucking swamp, monsters lurking just below the mud, ready to drag him deeper.

Maybe he's tired of that. Maybe he doesn't have to wait to ease out of things. Fewer hunts have not yet meant that they can expect to spend full weeks at home. The kids need a lot of help, still, and he wouldn't abandon them. He's just looking forward to taking Bobby's shape in it. More of a central hub than a mobile unit.

If they want to come by and plan out their next hunt and learn new sigils for three days, that's fine.

Sam just wants to wave them off at the fence and turn back to the front door.

Go in and upstairs and find his husband naked in this tub. Blinking in warm water and cradling his mug just above the surface.

"I need to tell you something," Sam decides, blowing out a breath.

"That's the exact thing I'm here for," Chuck reaches up to run his thumb over the dent in Sam's ear.

It's like the world disappears around them when Chuck does that. When Sam says he needs him - when he just needs to _say_ something to him - Chuck clicks the rest of reality off like a damn television and gives Sam his undivided attention. It's as if nothing else could matter to him.

Sam's starting to understand how that feels. He wants to be more capable of it. He wants to spend more time in their own, dedicated personal space.

"I thought I knew what mattered most. I thought it was the job. And Dean. Saving people. Making the world safe. That's what I told you; that's what I said. That when I looked in myself, those were what I needed most in my life. That I don't need picket fences and kitchens and kids."

Chuck nods. Seems to steady himself.

"I changed my mind. And I think I'm changing for the better. I'm not the job. I'm not responsible--" he stops. Takes a huge breath. "I'm not responsible for the world. I don't want it to end and I want people to live and. Maybe I gave all of myself to the world and those people that I'm capable of giving to. Maybe I need to preserve the rest for Dean and the kids and Charlie and Cas and for you. Maybe I need kitchens and maybe I still need to save people. But what matters most to me - it's not the job. It's not taking everything onto my shoulders. Maybe it's letting things. I donno. Bloom? I can't hold off the floods and droughts myself. Maybe I can't even plant the fields anymore. I can tell people how things grow, though. I can make sure they know how to nurture stuff so they can reap good things. I'm not-" he blinks and laughs at himself. "I'm not nurturing. I don't think of myself that way. And Dean is. And it's important that he be that way in the world. Maybe it's more my job to..." he swallows and can't find the words.

"Remind our people that the things they grow will feed the world," Chuck fills in. Seamlessly.

Sam nods. Yes. He knew Chuck would have the words.

"We're not gonna last forever. People are gonna need to know how to do this if it turns out that Claire and Krissy are too surly to be farmers," Chuck smirks.

Sam busts a real laugh, then. "Yeah. And so. You. That's where you come in. If I wanna save the world, really, the future of the world, and keep people safe, I need you and your words. You've been right all along. There's a definite value in experience, but now we need to write our books and set out our lesson plans and make this job safer by making it smarter. I know... I know that you're doing fiction right now. I know you wanna do that for a while longer. But you haven't been- you've been plugging away at it like you always did with the sports writing. The stuff you did for paychecks."

Chuck looks a little caught out.

"It's okay if that's how things work for you now. It is. But will." Sam hesitates. "Will you start taking breaks? Like when you get to a mental stopping point?"

Chuck runs fingers through his hair. "My words are at your service, Mr. Winchester."

That's awesome but Chuck can't think that's his only role here. "It's not just that. I didn't just take things out of my list of priorities. I didn't just remove hunting. I know it will take a while to ease back. But. I don't just wanna _have Dean_ and _Save People_. I can't survive on just those two things anymore. You're important to me. And I don't need your words and the writing books together in order to place you at the top of the list. I just need you. I just know that you're important to who I am. If you were mute for the rest of your life, your eyes and your fingers would tell me how much you love me and the simple fact that you do pushes you to the top. You gave me someone to love and stick close to and fucking adore who adores and loves and stays close to me, too. You gave me _you_. It's amazing. You only care that I'm happy and I live. It's. I don't know why you care. But then. I think I've asked you to list off the reasons enough. And it all just comes out to." He shrugs.

"Just because. Because Sam," he insists again, stilling his hands and holding Sam firm.

"Because Sam," he sighs at himself. "I think I tricked you."

"I don't think you're mean enough to trick me. Show me your war face."

He just drops into this exasperated sort of _do I really have to?_ pathetic look and Chuck closes his eyes and smiles and shakes his head.

"That'll work. That has me cowering in fear."

"You're important to me. Dean is. Our family is. The lives that the kids will save. Keeping them alive long enough to do it. Those things are important to me. Saving the world? Yes. Important. But saving the world for a reason is more important. I need that to stop being my central axis. And I'm kinda worried I can't escape this same spin. I need to be closer to my reasons than to the process of saving the world. If that- if that makes _any_ sense."

Chuck takes a breath. "Everything that's important to you is important to me. Because you're important to me. And I've never met anyone who championed more just causes than you. If I'm on your side I can't really lose. I understand that you can't hold onto the wide-focus anymore. No one should fault you for that, Sam. I mean. You saved me, like you saved the world, and you have to have saved me for a reason. So I go on living and I do stuff to prove that you saved me for a reason. And I'll get up again tomorrow to keep doing it. You can let the world do that. You can let it stand on its own two feet." He seems to mull something over. "Do you think things will be easier if we stop being so vague about our projects? If we have cut-off dates? Like I know we don't know when the house will be done, but when it is, maybe only two hunts per month after that. Like we budget our time a little more. Like when the house is done, I'll put the fiction down and we'll work on a textbook. After non-fiction is fiction and I just keep trading off."

He has to think about that. He has to come up with realistic expectations for himself. He has to work around his own desires so he can support Chuck in his. "Can we work on how to plan that out? I'm not sure where to start."

Chuck shrugs. "We can start off small. Like we say the next time we go on a vampire hunt with the kids, that will be the last vampire hunt that you and me do for a year. We do the same with poltergeists and whatever others. They can watch us do it one more time, then we stick to the phones for the next one."

That sounds completely reasonable. "Only a year?"

"Just one of 'em per year so you don't forget how," he grins.

Sam snorts, "Like I ever could."

Maybe he looks too haunted when he says that. He doesn't mean for it to sound so bad. Chuck takes it in sympathy - looks stricken and cradles his head and sits up to kiss him. "We have new habits to practice," he says. "We have a great tub to-"

Sam catches the idea with his mouth.

They don't end up waiting for the proper plumbing to break their bathtub in.

«»

Holy shit.

They'd been worried this whole time about Chuck wandering the property and tripping on a memory but.

Wow. Sam's the one short of breath and fumbling for the stairs with shaking hands.

The next time he looks up, Chuck's climbing towards him with a hand out. Sam grabs him and pulls him up the last few steps.

Chuck reaches and wraps around his head and pets his hair. Sways him and tells him to close his eyes and think about grocery shopping.

"You wanna tell me what happened?" he asks after a while.

"I looked out a window. I saw the view and it was. It reminded me of something I forgot. Something when."

Something from when he was soulless. He remembers looking out a window in Bobby's house and seeing the same thing and resolving to call Balthazar to do anything rather than get his dishrag soul stuffed back into him.

He hates - _hates_ \- talking to anyone about that time, let alone Chuck. And he's remembering the moments when he decided to do something about it. Knew that preserving himself was the only order of the day, no matter what the cost.

That had been him. And it had made him want to kill Bobby.

He knew. He's seen glimpses before. It was just how sudden that one moment came back. He shivers and.

And he tells Chuck. Front-to-back. He tells him the whole, entire story. Because if there's anyone in this world who knows the devastating effect of suddenly getting whammied by a memory, it's him.

Even if Sam doesn't wanna talk about it, he should. It's smarter to do it.

It wasn't hell stuff. And all his lost memories have a soft edge to them when they come back, thanks to Cas relieving him of most the burden. But it can still be a solid kick in the spine sometimes.

Nothing like what Chuck goes through.

Sam clings to Chuck's sleeves and rests against him.

"You know how you keep insisting that the soulless stuff was you?" Chuck asks after a while.

"It was. I take these stupid extreme measures all the time no matter who I hurt-"

"That's an incredible lack of insight and I'm more offended than I was at CreepyCon," Chuck dismisses it and pulls Sam's head under his chin. "It wasn't you. You without your soul isn't you. You can't be two places at once. Therefore? Wasn't you."

Sam has the arguments sitting in the back of his throat. All the reasons he shouldn't tell Chuck that he should run from him. All the things he'd say if he were a good person and he let Chuck go to save himself.

He doesn't want to say them. And it's far beyond the point of no return between them. Chuck is stuck with him, no matter what damned thing within him bubbles to the surface.

"It was my brain," he whispers. "You screw the light in, that doesn't mean a lamp wasn't a lamp just because it didn't light things up without a bulb. It was still-"

"Uninsightful and oversimplified. Strike two. Humans aren't lamps, Sam. And I could literally start calling lamps 'tables' and that's not gonna make lamps or tables work any differently, it's just gonna give them different names. So if your argument is based on the fact that 'things that illuminate are lamps and you can't quit calling it a lamp,' then tell me what it is in Spanish. Tell me what a candle is. A neon sign. The goddamn sun. Stop looking for ways to blame yourself for things that have long since passed. Especially the things you couldn't fucking fathom doing right at this moment. I want you to stop attacking yourself for your own health. You don't have to let everyone keep the pieces of you that they threw out. You don't have to let heaven keep your destiny just because you let them use you to fight the apocalypse. You don't have to let Satan keep you just because you locked yourself in with him. You don't have to let Cas keep you because he brought you back broken. Much as we love him, he's the one whose hubris did that to you. If you've forgiven him, it's long past time to forgive yourself. You don't hold other people accountable enough and you continue to throw yourself in with the garbage saying that's where you belong. It's starting to feel like a kind of commentary on my taste, just a little bit. If you refuse to stop lumping yourself in with the trash for your own benefit, maybe try chilling out so I know you don't see our future together as some long drive to the landfill."

That's not what he meant, but before he can object, Chuck backtracks.

"No. Fuck me. Sorry. I didn't even mean that. What I genuinely want, and what you should want," he shakes Sam a little, "is for you to feel like you belong to you. It's not enough for you to want to belong to us. It really isn't. I want you to keep your grudges just a little bit. To leave the blame in the pockets of the people who deserve it instead of picking it up to carry yourself. You shouldn't be the only person you're angry at."

Sam blinks. "I'm not."

"Okay. Then you know who's responsible for your actions when you didn't know better? Literally everyone around you. Samuel and Cas and Crowley. The people who worked beside you and the people who used you as a pawn. They put actions into your hands when they were not what you - as a whole and complete being - would have chosen."

Chuck declares this and lets it sit so Sam can inspect the edges and look for flaws. Which, of course, he doesn't find.

"Maybe one day I'll get used to all my self-confidence coming from outside myself," he mumbles.

"It'll be good enough for me if you remember some of these tools are already lying around us for you to pick up and use on your own. I'd love it if you could find a way to be happy without being bullied into it."

Chuck only lets him absorb for another minute. Then he says:

"Open your hands and let go of it."

Because that's something he'd do in the throes of memory if he could. When he lets go, it drags him under. When Sam lets go it flies away.

He does as he's told. Even lets go his clenched hands from Chuck's hoodie.

Here in reality, Bobby is dead and Sam isn't the one who did it to him. He never wanted to hurt Bobby. He never would have found a reason. Really can't fathom it.

If he goes back and views that moment from outside, he sees Sam Winchester operating as a stranger.

Not even the anger that takes up so much of his insides would be enough to make him calculate the death of someone he loved so much.

Without his soul, Sam wasn't Sam.

Chuck reaches up and takes Sam's work goggles off his head, puts his hair back in the right place, caresses his ears when tucking it back. He takes his own goggles off and pulls the tape measure from his pockets. Takes Sam's gloves off his hands.

He stands. "Help me down," he feels wobbly without a rail so Sam has to steady him and he gets them both downstairs. Chuck dumps their stuff in one of the chairs and unplugs the lamps. "We're going to the motel. We'll take a nap and do dinner and go back to the apartment."

Sam would protest. They were getting a lot done. But he can already see that Chuck won't be bending on this one.

Sam empties his own pockets and scratches his nose, looking around, trying to see if he's left anything he can't live without for a week. "I wanna put a tarp over the-"

Chuck points, like, _right, got it_ , and he helps with wrapping everything up. Grabs the stuff Sam forgot about, locks up. He even drives.

He finally has to toss out at least one protest. "We don't have to go all the way to the apartment. Just a mental health day I understand but-"

"I would wanna be surrounded by things that don't have as many images attached," Chuck says. "I would wanna see good things for a while. I want you to have peaceful things. You never flip out like that so when it happens? I am not taking chances with your head, Sam. That's my job, remember? To protect your head."

He blows out a breath and settles into the seat.

"Is the window in a bad place? Or. Like, do we have to move a tree or something?"

"No," he shakes his head and sighs. "I've looked out that way dozens of times now, I was just- it was a combination of thoughts and feelings." And heavy clouds. Birds gliding low. And suddenly a memory just fell like a leaf off a tree. Like it just landed in his hand. "Total freak occurrence."

"If you feel that way again, we'll change something. You've changed almost the entire property, and I know it wasn't specifically to protect me, but you went through the trouble of digging up _everything_ I could remember."

Sam didn't realize his heart was still flying until it started to slow. The clouds are a certain height today. It's just the air pressure. Just the wrong place and wrong time. Almost as clear as déjà vu and as ringing as the memory of gunshots.

His heart slows and something within him - something in his chest, not his head, not the bind, not Chuck's opinion grafted into him - something _in him_ is telling him that he can let his husband take care of him today.

He really doesn't mean to, but his palm comes to his mouth and he's breathing hard and crying over his hand. Chuck must think he's having a panic attack or something. He veers over to the side of the road, rumbling and fast, kills the engine, and gets out to come around and pull Sam's door open. Chuck makes him come down and sit on the ground and lean over his knees and breathe.

It's not a panic attack, it's just-

Is it?

If he lets his face go he can breathe. It's gasps and sobs and he feels strangely outside of himself all of a sudden but-

Sam stops trying to understand it and lets Chuck take his hands. He grabs them hard and squeezes. He breathes big and he calls to Sam and tries to get him to do the same until he just... follows. He just _does_.

Chuck can take care of him. He can rest. He can let this happen.

How bad is it that he didn't know he could just.  
Stop being the savior for a few minutes?

He didn't know, he _genuinely_ didn't know. But that was the whole point of getting married, wasn't it?

He's supposed to let Chuck take care of him sometimes. He's supposed to be able to fall apart and let go.

Sam might still be responsible for gathering himself back up and deciding to stand up and function in the morning and know that he has reasons to live on each day. But if more than half of his will sometimes comes from somebody else--

It's Chuck. And that's okay.

It's his Significant Other. It's his Teammate.

The idea is strangely wonderful and also tosses his whole life upside-down.

Chuck sits beside him and pulls him down to hold his head and kiss over his hair.

He sincerely feels like he is in Chuck's hands. He has two good feet to stand on, yes. But he is allowed to sit. Allowed to rest. Why is that _fucking overwhelming??_

Chuck doesn't say, "It's okay." He doesn't mindlessly repeat platitudes and that's how Sam knows he _gets it_.

Instead, Chuck asks questions.

"I don't always get this right - I don't always feel things perfectly through the bind. But did I just panic you by telling you what to do for the rest of the day?"

"No," Sam hiccups a breath. "No."

"Did you remember something else?"

"No." Sam closes his eyes and sits up some to dump his head on Chuck's shoulder. "I'm fucked up today. Will you take me home?"

Chuck touches his neck. "You need another minute."

"I need another week. I could lay down in your lap and sleep right now."

"You can do that for a week," Chuck allows.

"Good. I think I panicked because I realized it's your turn to herd me around feeling numb and I didn't exactly know I was allowed to completely fucking fall apart."

"You haven't fallen-- Sam," Chuck leans their heads together. "Yeah. I'm right here. Been here a while. I can do this, too. You've just got more practice. But I can do this."

"I noticed." Sam nods. "I'm kind of in love with you. You're kind of my answer."

Chuck is silent for a while, tracing the fingers of the hand Sam's using to clutch his knee. "I'm sorry we're on the side of the road after you've had a really rough day and that we're... like, sitting on the ground and stuff. But. I just had one of the most important moments of my life right here."

"Yeah?" Sam wonders.

"Yeah. I think we're both gonna live to be happy."

The field in front of them can neither confirm nor deny but they keep its company until the wind changes and the clouds are a new shape.


	9. life, it rents us

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A new tag has been added for this chapter. TEMPORARY major character death.
> 
> TEMPORARY. We cool?

Sam is snapping off the lights, heading to bed, as the fire alarm sounds throughout the building.

"Fuck," he slumps. He's so fucking tired.

Chuck is bolt-upright in bed, blinking wide eyes.

"I don't smell smoke," Sam says over the din. He has half a mind to ignore it and shut the noise out with the muffliato on their bedroom door.

But Chuck isn't having that shit. He looks ready to panic.

Alright. Nothing is worth that.

Sam comes to yank the blanket and wrap him in it and push him toward the door. He toes into his boots and grabs Chuck's shoes for him to put on outside. Chuck grabs two jackets at random and hustles out the door first.

Sam turns back for his keys, then jogs after him down the stairs.

Chuck tries to keep from trailing the blanket on the ground. He waits when he gets to the bottom step and Sam has his shoes unlaced by then so he can step into them.

A fire truck is pulling up and there's a haze when they approach the parking lot.

"Huh," Sam says. "There actually was a fire."

"Uh. I don't wanna be close to it."

So Sam herds him away from the complex and they join the crowds in their pajamas and underwear and robes.

Chuck hands the green jacket over only to discover that he'd grabbed two of Sam's.

"Gimme," Sam says, and holds open the blanket so Chuck can shrug into Sam's black jacket and practically drown in it. Sam grins and wraps him back up.

"We can share, if you're cold?" Chuck offers a shrouded arm.

Sam hadn't kicked his jeans off yet, Chuck is only in a t-shirt and boxers. "Keep it, I'm good," he keeps Chuck tight at his side and rubs his arm. He'll take him to the car in a minute - right now, curiosity is getting the better of him.

The guy who drives an ancient old Beamer is joining the crowd, griping, asking who's to blame.

The woman who lives down the hall from them joins the group, pulling an oversized trench around her shoulders. "That Sandford prick is in an ambulance," she reports.

Sandford. That's the bigot downstairs.

"What happened?" someone chimes in.

She shrugs. "I was just passing. They walked him out on oxygen."

"He was probably lighting up in his apartment. He does it when he's drunk. I told them that would happen!!" one of his next-door neighbors says. "I told them I could smell him doing it. Probably set his couch on fire. I told them..." he trails off.

Judging from where the emergency vehicles are parked, Sam would guess the guy is right.

"Speaking of," says the woman who drives the green Jeep, "anyone happen to have a smoke?"

Her husband groans and elbows her and the joke is received poorly, overall.

Sam edges them away from the crowd and to the back of the parking lot where the truck is parked. He helps Chuck into the passenger seat and Sam gets up to scoot in with him, pull him into his lap.

They can see better from here. The guy's apartment is open and so is the one to the right of him.

Firemen are moving in and out of both apartments, unhurried. Hopefully they get the all-clear soon. It doesn't seem like it was a big deal. The smoke is already clearing.

Chuck cuddles close to him. "I was super tired but now I'm, like, wildly awake. That alarm is... piercing."

"I'm the opposite," Sam yawns. "I can't wait to crash out."

"Well. Standard Winchester response to everyday, high-adrenaline situations is basically 'hand me that knife and let's just get this over with' so I can't say I'm surprised." Chuck reaches to the passenger door. "Pull your feet in."

Sam does and he closes them inside.

"Go to sleep. I'll wake you up when they come around to get us."

"Nah. It won't be that long," Sam waves him off.

But. Of course it is.

After an hour, he changes his mind. Chuck has moved to the driver's seat to hang out the window and watch, but Sam's cold and tired.

He yawns, wide and loud and painful.

Chuck turns to frown at him.

"Wanna-"

"Yes," he gives up.

Chuck rolls up the window and sits back and beacons to him.

He lays down in the seat all twisted and uncomfortable until Chuck tells him he's fine and he properly fits his too-tall legs across the space, rests perfectly with his head on Chuck's lap.

A hand digs into Sam's jeans and Chuck pulls out the keys to turn on the battery and get the radio working. He finds a soft rock station and that's it. Sam's out. Totally zonked.

A knock on the window wakes him up fucking 90 minutes later. It's Sandra, from across the hall, and when he scoots forward and opens the door he sees Kate carrying their turtle with both hands.

"Hey! Didn't see you there! I thought Chuck was on his own. They're gonna let us back in soon."

"Uh. Thanks. Great," he blinks a lot and they both laugh at him.

"Sam, you're good with animals," Kate steps up, "tell Justin everything's safe now," she holds up the shell, all limbs hidden inside. "He's been this way since the alarm went off. He normally loves it outside. He wouldn't play in the grass or anything."

Sam laughs. But he hooks his hair back behind his ears and accepts the turtle, holding him like a sandwich like Kate taught him. He looks inside, only the truck's dome light to illuminate it. "Hey, buddy. You're safe. Hello?"

Justin peeks out.

"You're totally fine," Sam soothes the turtle. "Nothing bad is gonna happen. You'll get to go home soon."

Justin hangs out a little but doesn't seem convinced. Or maybe he's just cold. He disappears back into his shell.

"Well," he shrugs and hands him back. "I tried."

"He'll be better in the morning," Sandra says. "Or, um. Later in the morning, I guess."

The sisters turn to one of the property owners who's come over to give them the all-clear.

Sam turns to find that Chuck's awake. Drowsy-looking but smiling at him, warm and pleased and... kinda sexy.

Sam smiles back a little. "Want me to carry you back up?"

"Nah. Help me down, though?"

Oh. Okay.

Chuck waits for him to circle the truck and come to hand him down. Sam gets the blanket around him so he's covered but it won't drag. He kisses Chuck's head and pulls the blanket up like a hood, urges him back toward the building.

Upstairs and safe inside again, they kick their shoes off and Sam hangs the jackets back up. He cuts the lights off, but Chuck snags him. Brings him to the couch. "Sit?"

"Do I have to? I mean. I'm sorry sweetheart I'm just really fucking tired."

"You've been more tired than this. You just had a nap. Sit down."

"What are we-"

Chuck sits down on top of him and initiates a truly delicious makeout session. He straddles Sam so they're all up against each other and when Sam's hands sink down into the back of his boxers, he moans, just letting it rip, so it echoes off their high ceilings.

"Jesus," he gasps, going after his skin and not feeling even a little bit tired.

"Thanks for letting us stay in our shells."

"Holy shit," Sam says against his shoulder. Is this really because he took a turtle from a sleep-deprived sales clerk and talked to it?

"You're so good at making me safe," Chuck praises. "I love you so much. I feel so good with you."

Sam can't handle this shit. He pulls the sheet from where it's slipped and gets it back over Chuck's head, pulls it around them both and keeps it wedged tight behind his back. "Our shell," Sam seeks it out in his head and hazes his love all against it- "our fort - our pillow fort. Shell, oh, sweetheart. Yes. I love it here. Can I stay with you??"

"Yeah Sammy," he can't see, but he's sure Chuck smiles down at him all sappy, holding his face and pressing kisses to him.

Sam rocks him on his lap. Chuck sinks forward to drape over him and Sam can kiss his neck, reach into his boxers again and stroke him.

He doesn't grind up himself. He doesn't ask Chuck to reciprocate. He touches and listens. Whichever of Chuck's moans and cries don't fall into Sam's skin bounce off the walls. It all sounds so lovely. He works Chuck until he's gasping and grasping, thanking him, telling him, breathlessly, that he's _so good_.

Chuck coming close makes Sam throw his head back and gulp air. The blanket slips away. He still hasn't been touched but he surges up under Chuck, now, seeing him. Rolling underneath him, trying to concentrate and make it last really long for Chuck, drawing out the teasing.

But then Chuck cries out louder and grips his hair, needs to find some oxygen and falls back.

He must see that _desperate_ thing in Sam's eyes, because he reaches down to scrabble at the button of his jeans and wedge his hand in. He just holds Sam and it's enough for him to pump into, his own noise echoing, now.

He wants to draw it out more - he knows how to and he wants to - but Chuck pulls another one of his spectacular mental moves that makes Sam feel like he's thinking that--

Like he's thinking about Sam non-stop. Wanting to live inside of his heart and be safe within him forever-- be his answer. Be exactly what he needs. There's a screaming desire pouring out of Chuck.

He just wants to be here for Sam.  
He won't ever leave.  
He would never want to leave him alone.

And Sam knows this by now.  
He _knows_.

But fuck if it doesn't make him come, anyway.

He crashes forward to get to his mouth and comes with Chuck just holding him and thinking fluffy thoughts at him. How fucking ridiculous is that??

Because of a turtle!! Because of a goddamn fire alarm!!

He changes his grip and kisses Chuck to coming and whispers at his mouth, "Love you, oh fuck. Love you. You're so much. You're so goddamn huge in my life. You're too much to ever..." he gulps air, "ever let go. Love you love you love you like hell," he shakes his head. "Breathe with me. You're good. You're perfect, hermit crab."

"Ugh," Chuck calms down and melts against him. Shudders. He loosens his grip on Sam but it's close quarters and Sam still gasps from his touch as he tries to extricate himself. "Sorry. Laundry day."

"Yeah. Goddamnit, can I lick you clean?" he doesn't mean to ask but now it's out there.

And Chuck, his husband, who knows him so well, just pulls the sheet away and slips to the side to lay back across the couch. Sam kneels between his knees and Chuck lets it happen, clenching his hands and twitching at each lick, watching, this time. Sometimes it's too much for him to handle but this time? This time he watches and when Sam looks up.

Fuck.

Sam has no self control so he's gonna make it too much. He pulls Chuck into his mouth just to breathe around him for a while, keep him warm.

Chuck slams his palm on the fabric after a minute of his breath ramping. " _Fffuck!_ " he shouts after a while, trying not to use his messy hand to push Sam away.

He lets Chuck fall from his mouth and kisses his leg. His hip. Pushes up his shirt to get at his ribs.

"I surrender. I can't," Chuck declares.

"I can."

"I give up, Sam. You can have me again in the morning."

"But I kinda wanna _make you_ ," he grins, crawling up him.

"I thought you were tired!"

"I took a nap," he shrugs.

"Alright," Chuck wiggles away. "I brought that on myself, I'll admit."

They get in a weird mood.

Sam feels closer to him lately.

They seem to have phases in their relationship and they may repeat, but they've got subtle differences each time.

They do have sex again, in the morning.

They have breakfast, do some research and writing separately, across the couch from one another. Then, afternoon sex turns to lazy, naked lounging and quiet talk. Kinky little things along with kissing, exploring. Lingering things that edge on scary for how close and serious and private they are.

Sam touches him in too-intimate, possessive ways until Chuck stops avoiding his eyes and lets Sam just keep his fingers there. Accepts it. Reaches to draw him close and kiss him and ask him why he wants this so much.

The answer, much like Sam's quiz question, is _just because. Because Chuck._

Another week of constant sex. Of Sam not being able to get enough of him. Feeling so-so-so close to him. Feeling known through his skin and bones and never alone. Chuck's sage, hooded eyes urging him on, waiting to see what each drawn-out touch turns into.

When they go out for dinner and Chuck comes close to talk to him low, in the slow-moving line, he can't see any other couple around sharing this kind of quiet and easiness. He sees impatient people with their arms crossed or cell phones to their heads and talking tense.

He offers his hand and Chuck pets it and calls it a "very good sort of hand, all long and hard-working," before he grins up at Sam and actually tangles their fingers together.

Sam thinks he can feel the bind a little more. It's brighter than just far-away shades. Ever since he kinda freaked about the Balthazar thing, he feels like he was super-blocked or maybe repressing too much and something sharp tore loose to hurt him. But. When he let it go? When Chuck helped him let it go?

Relief. Like a crusty, old cinderblock wall crumbled and now they've put up drywall and a window to replace it.

Sometimes shapes come through the bind a little more defined.

He can tell when thoughts suddenly come to Chuck. When ideas strike him there's a gust and a slat of sunshine through the curtains.

And Sam is pretty sure Chuck can tell that he's having these sappy thoughts about him.

He'll tell Sam to cross the room over to him so he can appreciate him right back. Or blink awake with soft, pleased eyes and offer himself up.

The turtle thing was ridiculous, but it made Chuck's eyelids dip and for days after he just didn't apologize for anything. He stopped being cautious about being himself and he seemed to trust Sam to understand him without making excuses for not being a regular, chatty, social creature.

Sam's been waiting for this. For Chuck to spare the worrying and niceties and stop trying to explain. Stop asking, even. Just trust that Sam has done his studying and use all their words to talk about movies and the internet and traveling and the news and haircuts and their family and writing and science and sea creatures.

The haircuts they have a weirdly serious discussion about while Sam props him up on the counter and shaves his scraggly face back into shape. This is only the fourth time Chuck has let it get to the point where he'll allow Sam to intervene. He tries to deal with it, himself, he really does.

"Lately I've just," he shrugs only his shoulders, trying to keep his head held still. "Maybe I don't want my face naked but. Something different. Like I donno. I asked Claire if she would paint my nails blue but she just texted back that she was gonna punch me."

Sam snorts.

"I may have to do it myself. I just feel like it."

"What kind of blue?" he asks, tilting Chuck's head.

"Like a. Like a dark kinda denim blue. I don't know. I don't think I can do what I really want to."

"Why not?" Sam frowns. "You can do anything you want to."

"Well," he hesitates. "Dean didn't tell you all the details of that time Zach threw him forward to try to convince him 2014 was gonna be a mess of Croatoan zombies."

Sam wavers. "He told me the major points."

"He saw me there. In that version of the future. I'd survived and found him and just. Clung on to his whole little army. I wasn't much use. But the point is, he saw me in that version of reality and. Well. He's _Dean_ , so I know he still thinks about it. But in that reality I tried to keep my hair way shorter. And it looked. I donno. Less sloppy I guess but also lower maintenance - whatever about that. I just didn't. Um. I didn't look too bad," he shrugs again.

"Okay," Sam towels off his face. "So you wanna try having short hair but you think it will make Dean think about-"

"Give him flashbacks. Or nightmares or something."

"Chuck?" he brings his chin up again but this time to focus and get his eyes. "You can get your hair cut short. I promise you aren't a source of nightmares for my brother. Even if you were-"

"Cas can take care of it," they echo each other and Chuck nods.

"Okay."

"So you wanna do that?" Sam plucks at his swooping curls and runs fingers through his hair. "Get it cut way short?"

Chuck inhales big. "Yeah. I think so. Should I get red in it? Queen-red?"

Sam hadn't decided when the time would be right to bring it up again. "Sure. Um. You want the professionals to do it?"

"I think that would be best, yeah."

"Okay. If you do, then I'll get some red in mine, too."

Again, Chuck doesn't question him, just squints a little and seems to check him for doubts. Chuck touches his hands so he can get a solid read on his feelings about it and Sam allows this. He's genuinely ready.

"How will you do yours?" Chuck asks, letting go of him so he can finish with the shaving things.

"Like red streaks underneath. So you don't really see it, but when I lift my hair up?"

"Nice. I like that. What if I go just... all red? I was thinking just bits of it at this length. But. I don't know. I'm worried about looking. Um. Can- will they understand me if I just say 'I want red but I don't wanna look like a tool'?"

"I think they'll know how not to make you look dorky," he nods.

"Okay. How do we find someplace you can trust?"

"I'll call my people," he grins.

"You have hair people? I should've known," Chuck smiles.

He trusts Sam to find a hairdresser and Sam thinks he's got somebody. It's a bit of a drive, but the woman is level-headed for an artist. She helps Chuck with his vision for his own hair, brings it entirely away from his neck and adds hints of red all over. And she's very careful with Sam's hair, dying chunks of the lowest layer red in no particular pattern, just a good spread.

Chuck is the one who worries, of course.

He's very protective.

He decided he needed to give her permission before they entered her shop, just in case. Takes it away as soon as they leave.

"I don't know if it would really work that way," Sam laughs.

"Well, just in case it does, I revoke all permission. Even if it's just Dean trying to prank you."

Sam laughs again. "Let's not burn him for that."

They get to a place for dinner and Chuck smiles each time he catches sight of some of Sam's new color.

He gets up and into the booth next to him, pulls out his phone and digs in Sam's jacket pockets.

"What are you-"

Chuck sighs. Starts patting his own pockets. "I'm looking for one of your- ah!" He pulls a hair tie out of his own jeans pocket. Urges Sam to turn.

He gives a nervous laugh this time. "Uh. I don't really wanna change the way I wear it-"

"No, I know. It's just that there's a nice white wall here, you'll really be able to capture the color. So turn," Chuck reaches when he does. Ties it up so the red is showing, and then sits with his own back against Sam's. He holds his phone to the side and Sam helps him until he snaps a good, clear picture of the both of them in profile, the red just emerging in a subtle way from Chuck's hair and the bold lines of it blended with the darker hair from the underside of Sam's whole head.

It's not bad.

But their waitress sees them at it and dumps herself into the opposite side of the booth. "Alright, cuties, gimme."

She takes Chuck's phone and lines up a better shot. Reaches over and illustrates how Sam can tuck his hair in and show it better. She makes them both sit up straight and then captures the perfect image:

Both of them with their backs pinned together, pressed tight, new hair bold against the white background, straight spines and laughing grins because their waitress tells them to say "cheeseballs."

They thank her and Chuck keeps him updated after he sends the image to their queen.

Charlie sends them both flurries of wide-mouthed emojis and accuses them of PhotoShopping her into a heart attack.

She must be stuck between amazement and disbelief.

When Dean calls, Sam answers on speaker.

"I call bullshit."

They laugh at him.

"No way he convinced you to do that. There's no way," Dean is absolutely unperturbed. "Nice work, though, she's got the pic on her desktop now and she's ripping the data layers apart or whatever."

"Uh huh," Sam says, takes his hair down and holds half of it up to the side to take another picture and send it. "You're about to get a text," he says. And waits.

Dean is silent for a long time.  
"Well, fuck me sideways."

They laugh at him.

«»

They're waiting for a call from Dean to see if they're needed on a hunt. If everyone has to converge they're gonna have to pack up and leave and drive very far. They're hoping it doesn't come to that. They're hoping so much that they're not even packing ahead of time.

Sam is too energetic, so he pulls the coffee pot and keeps it on the table. Keeps his mug to the right and Chuck's to the left of the laptop. Makes Chuck sit in his lap to write again, finally, after months of letting him work on his own.

"Let's write a story while we wait," Chuck says.

"We haven't done that in a while."

"But like a real one. And I'll list you as my co-author."

"That feels like a lot of pressure all of a sudden."

"It's not. We'll just write a story for fun."

"About us or about something else?"

"Anything you want."

Sam is quiet for a while. He handles Chuck a little differently to shift him so he can free up a hand and itch his nose. "I don't-- I'm not that creative. I like watching you just spin these words out of nowhere."

"You're creative, Sam. I know you are. I've seen it," Chuck assures him quietly and pets the arm that's holding his front.

Sam hesitates. There's this idea that's been bugging him. "Ever since. Well. Ever since Betty. I've been. Well." He pauses. Breathes. "You know I've been pissed off about it. I've been, maybe, like, holding it back and keeping it down. But. And I know you're a little hurt about it, even still. And I keep wondering. Like what if. Like, say I knew you in high school. And we. Maybe we had like a high school thing where." He stops. "I donno. All I can picture is, in a normal world, I would have taken you home one day and we would have been studying but we'd have the place to ourselves and I'd just be your first, you know? And I'd ask you to prom and whatever, even if you didn't wanna go. And we'd talk about college and you'd be going to Penn State on one coast and I'd be at Stanford on the other coast and-- but that doesn't end well. I mean. We do the long-distance thing and shit doesn't work out. It's sort of ridiculous and also kind of depressing."

"In fandom they call that a 'high school AU' and I'm really thrilled that you like writing alternate universe fics of our life. So how do we meet?" he pulls up a blank document.

Uh. This really is a lot of pressure. But. Also kinda fun? "In... chemistry class. We have chemistry."

"That sounds like something Dean would say, cheeseball. Try again."

"Okay. I um." God. What did he do in high school? That was so long ago. Well. "You play baseball. And I come to the games for school spirit or something. And you're really good. And I have this crush on you."

"The giant nerd has a crush on the tiny jock. This is going places. So, okay," Chuck starts outlining in short points, incomplete sentences, bits of dialogue. Sam watches as Chuck catches the first few weak throws he's made and unspools them into actual content. "Keep talking," he prompts, adjusts his glasses.

"So that thing happens. The one that you said-- where one day you're walking home. And I'm, uh. Driving to my evening job. Because I'm earning money for college? And I see this guy come up behind you and kinda throw you in the bushes and start in on you. Like. Like kicking you and." He watches Chuck type for a minute. Damn. This is so self-indulgent but he's always wanted to reverse this, ever since he put the pieces together - ever since Chuck let enough clues slip and Sam figured out what happened to make him quit the team. "And I stop and s- I guess I save you."

"Oh my god," Chuck whispers, earnest, "this is so romantic. I'm gonna die."

"So I give you a ride home and I tell you not to worry about what that asshole was doing. He was just jealous because you're a better player than him and I tell you it shouldn't make you quit the team. And I drop you off at home so I know you get there safe. And. Oh. And I do that whenever you have practice from then on. I just kind of offer to take you there since. Um. Since it's on my way to work, anyway," he makes it up as he goes along. "I just don't want you to quit because of that bullshit."

"Oh my god," Chuck whispers. "When do we make out?"

"Shut up. So. Maybe people see. And rumor gets around that we're dating. And I'm like. Well, that wouldn't be so bad. But I'm worried you don't see me like that? So we kind of see each other socially a little more. We hang out. But we only share a couple classes. And so." He gets hung up in the details for a second.

"I'm the jock so I need help studying. Because you're better than I am at math or whatever," Chuck points out.

"Pre-calc, yeah. Sure," Sam grabs on to it. "We're in pre-calc and you need help for the mid-term. And I say, well, I can come over to your place and help you study?"

"But there's a billion people at my house so I can't get much studying done there."

"So, I say, there's only Dean and my dad at my house. We can go to my house."

"We can go to the library. Or Starbucks?" Chuck tries to give him options.

"The library closes early and there's no Starbucks in town. We can go to _my house_ ," Sam corrects him, "because that's where we can sit too close on my bed and study until the sexual tension gets to us and we start making out."

" _Finally_ ," Chuck types like a madman. Sam gives him a few minutes to pound it out.

He waits until Chuck's just going back over his notes for some stray bits he wants to throw in. "So we're dating now and I don't give a fuck. I want everybody to know about it," Sam declares.

"Oh god."

"You're like the best player on the team."

"I'm really not!"

"You are in this story. You're the best hitter and the fastest runner and someone's looking at recruiting you for college and they want to give you scholarships. And. But, okay. So your brother- would he have gone to school with you?"

"Austin and Anna did- would have. At different points."

"I'm worried your brother is gonna say something shitty about us to your parents."

"Oh. Well, I don't know. He would have made fun of us, but I don't kno-- actually. Yeah. Dad would have been in some sort of towering screaming fit and I would have been told to fucking shut myself in my room and he doesn't wanna see my disgusting face and I'm just trying to cause problems for everybody. Fuck. I can see that happening."

"Oh no," Sam says sadly, presses his mouth to Chuck's shoulder. He just dug a hole. It feels kinda bad but he wants to rescue Chuck again. "I try to call you at home, before bed, but you don't answer. And then at school the next day, you try and act like it was no big deal-"

"Are you kidding? I'd be a mess."

"You're a mess," Sam amends, "and I convince you to come away to Stanford with me. So we don't have to split up. And. Holy shit," Sam spins off the deep-end, "I ask you to prom and we don't have to go, I just want to hear you say 'yes.' And you get a scholarship and I do, too, and we go away to California together and-"

He blinks and realizes what he just did to himself. Wow. High school and college are maybe emotional minefields now that he's thinking about it. He's edged too close to something quiet and important that belongs in its own world. California and all the independence it gave him, with a bright little apartment and paintings swirled into existence and music playing light in the background while Sam tried not to look up too often from his law books to watch Jess get smears of green and yellow on her arms.

"You know what? I don't think we do. I think we go backpacking across Europe after graduation," Chuck offers, instead, narrow eyes over his shoulder, knowing the corner that Sam just backed himself into and spinning him out, elsewhere.

Sam considers this. "And we run out of money. Get stuck in Barcelona, picking up jobs washing dishes at tapas places. And I come home in the afternoon when everyone's napping, to watch you write stories. You get famous, but, like, hermit famous. And we never have to go back because you're so fucking good at it. You keep us in luxury and maybe we move to France or live in Italy sometimes."

"I'm certainly bringing home the bacon. What are you doing?"

"I go to a university there and I end up teaching mythology."

"Good job."

"Thanks. Your family is jealous and we don't give a shit. Dean comes to visit us by cruise ship and he doesn't eat the local cuisine, he eats at McDonalds."

"Nice touch. Anything else?"

"I ask you to marry me in Spanish and you make me repeat it because you didn't quite believe you heard what you thought you heard."

"Sam. You're really good at this," the look he gives over his shoulder is pure encouragement. Completely earnest.

"Are you really gonna write all that up?"

"Yep. What an epic love story. I like the part where you- actually, I like all of it. Can you really propose to me in Spanish?"

"Um. Something something conmigo? I don't know. I guess not."

"I say 'sí' I know that much. Sí, gracias."

Sam snorts. "Will you marry me? Yes, thank you." They both laugh at that.

«»

It's Aiden's hunt for once. He finds an alleged haunting of a massive property-- an estate, really, in North Carolina.

Dean and Charlie check the place out with Aiden. They determine what it will take to get around security, and read up on the lore.

Massive haunting.

"The grounds were probably scarred by some kind of kinky-shit ritual some richy-rich did in the fucking _foy-yay_ or whatever you call a fancy room," Dean gripes on speakerphone. "Kid did good, I gotta admit. But." He sighs. "Listen. I know how you feel about Chuck being involved. But if this is a big-time cleansing, we could use the extra hands."

Sam pets Chuck's hand between his own. Kisses his neck.

Dean's the one asking. So he knows, before it happens, that Chuck's gonna say, "I'm okay with it." He shrugs in Sam's arms. "Buncha symbols. And if anything pops out at me, I just jump in a circle and call you."

"He won't even be there long," Dean adds. "Promise. It's a big job, but. We'll make him the sweep team. Bring him in after and start scribbling everywhere as we clear rooms. I think we need to sweep in from the north and south wings, toward the main hall." Dean rambles for a minute. Then whines, "C'moooon, can't my little brothers come out to play?"

Chuck snorts and Sam rolls his eyes.

Then Chuck taps the phone to mute while Dean whines some more, puts on a show, complains about being lonely.

"I honestly don't think Dean can trust Aiden as far as he can throw him right now. I think he needs us. I think it'll work out if we all show up for him. Maybe Aiden won't feel so far outside to all of us."

"You think that's what's going on?" Sam frowns.

Chuck hesitates. They listen to Dean for a moment.  
Then he nods.

Sam unmutes it.

"Alright," he talks over his brother, "alrightalrightalright. Give me the address. Lemme Google this beast."

"Yessss. There's an amazing Mexican restaurant you have to come to with us!!"

"Oh. Totally," Chuck perks.

«»

They have time. They're not in a rush to get there. Everyone who's already on scene needs to figure out how to get rid of the random property security vehicles that troll around the expensive neighborhood and Charlie found records of alarms being installed recently and they've gotta figure out why. They have to back Aiden up on the planning stages.

So Sam engages in his favorite method of packing for a hunt: he gives Chuck a walloping orgasm and leaves him naked in the middle of their room. Watches him doze while he drifts around, gathering their things.

Now he's thinking about high school. About taking him on awkward dates and the inevitable smartass comments people would make at them and the both of them defending each other. Partners like they are now, only without the advantage of having been trained to fight, on Sam's side, and without Chuck's advantage, knowing him front and back, being able to tell Sam that he's a good guy.

Would Chuck even have thought that of him? Would he ever have had reason to?

Sam thinks maybe they would have liked each other for different reasons. Maybe Chuck wouldn't have been the same person if Sam had rescued him before he'd been embittered toward his loud, irrational family.

Maybe Sam wouldn't have been a bad--

He stops himself and moves to kiss up Chuck's thigh, to his belly, and up to where his heart beats. Because he wouldn't want Sam thinking that crap.

Chuck stirs and moans and digs fingers into his hair. "Am I getting up now?"

Sam breathes against him and closes his eyes and moves back down to mouth at him lightly.

A whine in Chuck's throat and a hitch of his breath.

A moan when Sam manages to make him stiffen some. "God," rattles out of him. "Sam."

Sam slides two fingers back inside. "I should clean you up."

"Suspiciously does not feel like what you're doing right now," he says, strained.

"You think you can come for me again? You're so beautiful," he kisses at his cock and curls his fingers.

"Fucking. Fuck." His fingers tighten. Pull a little and make Sam moan on his skin. "No," he finally decides.

Sam disagrees. "You can let me carry you outside. You can sleep in the car." Swallows him down.

" _Sam!!_ "

He's using his own come to slick the way. To rock his fingers into Chuck. It's hot and dirty and he wants Chuck's taste in his mouth and to shake his world so hard he loses his filter and tells Sam the romantic way they would have got married as muggles.

"Hhh. Honey, oh god," Chuck unclenches his hands, trying to be more careful with Sam's head.

Sam just drags them to his face so Chuck can feel Sam's cheeks hollow around him.

The babble kicks in just as the subtle thrusting does.

"Inside me inside me," Chuck says, rapid-fire. "Inside me I want-" he moans.

Sam lets go of him to breathe over his wet cock. "I would've been the first one to touch you like this. Maybe the only one," he prompts.

"Only one ever," Chuck agrees. "I wouldn't have gone to college without--" he gasps. "You would have ruined me on fucking prom night. Or the last day of exams. All that stress just gone. And me just needing you to fuck my brains out so I can relaaa-x," he chokes.

"Really want me in you again?"

His ass clenches around Sam's fingers. " _You have to ask??_ "

Sam grins against his skin and draws himself back out of his shorts one-handed. Only takes his fingers out to press his cock back into the wet mess. Wraps that hand around Chuck and fucks him again.

Chuck scrabbles at his shoulders to hang on for dear life. "Be careful with me," he drops his voice to beg. "Never let anyone touch me like this before," he whispers in Sam's ear with the absolute most intentional purpose of making him rock-hard; make Sam fuck him unrelenting into the mattress and get them both to come echoing shouts into the room.

Sam collapses to the side, drags Chuck into him and tangles them up, not ready to shower yet. Not ready to let the rest of the world have his sweetheart. He's not sure anyone else has earned his company yet today. He's gonna have to make coffee and sandwiches before he goes so he doesn't have to expose Chuck to anyone else. So he can preserve their shell for the first few hundred miles.

"I'm never gonna let anyone else touch you, I hope you know that," he pants.

"Who else would I want? That's not high school cock. That cock would ruin someone straight past grad school."

"I've got professional adult cock," he grins.

"Starter home, four-door sedan, 401k cock," Chuck agrees. "That's the kinda cock I'll ride right into the retirement home."

"We are so whacked out," Sam gets his breath back.

"But we're fun," Chuck turns a dopey, lax grin on him.

«»

"Hey romancy-pants," Charlie says when they get to the motel, tosses a set of keys at them. Chuck makes the grab.

Sam wants to keep holding hands. He doesn't care about the teasing. The idea of taking Chuck with, out into the field, always makes him tense. Even when he knows Chuck won't be anywhere near the action. He might even be feeding off Chuck's nerves - he needs the thumb that's running over and over his hand. It calms him while, at the same time, it's an expression of Chuck's anxiety.

He makes a point of rubbing Chuck's knee when they sit down and Chuck smirks at him. Reaches to do the same to Sam until they grin and he winks.

Claire wanders over to the room and makes a kind of high-pitched noise at the doorway, turns around and slugs Aiden in the arm.

_Hard._

Everyone turns to glare at him.

"Hey, I'm the one getting assaulted here-"

"Don't fucking pinch me you douchecanoe!" she gets up in his face.

"I did not!! I was just-"

Dean wedges between them and pushes Aiden into the room.

Sam holds his other hand out to Claire.

She blows some frazzled, flyaway hair out of her face and comes over. Lets Sam grab for her and sits on Dean and Cas's bed with them. She settles in next to him and he sees that she's taken a cue from their queenly color change and put Charlie-red in her hair so it zig-zags down her braid.

"Hi. How's my room look?"

"Full of shelves, finally. Chuck made 'em. It looks good. You made a sound just like a dolphin right then, you know."

She elbows him, "Shut up before I tell everyone what _your_ alternate personality is."

He turns wide eyes down on his husband who betrays a caught-out look before turning away and clearing his throat.

"You told her??"

"She asked," he mumbles.

Dean drags the others in and starts calling things to order, "Alright, alright, you can shut the fuck up any day now..."

"Sperm whale," she says out the side of her mouth.

Sam chokes, covering a laugh.

Cas wanders in, rounding out the group. Claire leans over to see Chuck. "Angelfish."

He shakes his head. "Pufferfish. He's all stabby."

"Oooh," she leans back, nodding.

"Get your ass up here," Dean directs Aiden. Charlie's set up a PowerPoint with photos and history and maps with him which makes it look like he really did his homework and he's putting in his best effort.

He gets very serious about it. Krissy is the only one who doesn't look surprised.

Sam wonders when Josie stopped keeping close company with them. Ever since Florida, every time he's seen her, she's been hanging closer to Charlie than Krissy and Aiden.

Lines of concern in her face and avoiding Dean.

Maybe she's gonna try to pull back from the life.

Sam cringes.

That would hurt Dean a lot. Maybe he should snag her and ask. She could give Sam some time to prepare his brother for the blow.

Aiden puts Dean and Claire on a team at the north wing, pushing in. Sam and Josie coming up from the south. Cas is supposed to be at the front door, and Charlie will meet him coming in the back. They two will take the main hall and push back to meet the teams in the wings if they need it. Then they go upstairs from the main hall and work the opposite way through the wings. From the center, out. Sam, Cas, Josie head south. Dean, Claire, Charlie handle the north.

It suddenly seems low-key obvious to everybody that there's a distancing thing going on between Josie's team.

Sam looks for Dean's eyes across the room. He darts his eyes at Krissy and Dean's chin ticks up.

He's aware of the situation.

Sam will probably get an update. And then he'll have a chance to talk to Josie in the house.

"And you are...?" Josie asks of their mastermind.

"On the perimeter, handling security. Worse comes to worse, I'd rather get arrested, myself, with our stash of spray paint and have them think I'm just a punk vandalizing shit than for the operation to be incomplete. So Krissy comes in from the south with the cleansing sigils and Chuck does the same from the north. I coordinate. I'm the back-up. And I keep my nose up for when the rent-a-cop rolls by. I really don't think we have to mess with those guys. Just come in on foot, keep a low profile, carry our stuff in."

"What about the alarms that got installed?" Sam asks.

"I have a record of the alarm company coming out to consult and put a camera up, but there's just one on the front fence. I really think it's for show. I'll loop it," Charlie shrugs, "nothing hard at all. I'm just worried they put in ground sensors off the books? It's a small company. Not all their stuff has digital records and someone with that much money can keep their interests off the record. I just can't figure out if the property owner is nearer to selling or renovating. His assistants are doing the legwork trying to decide which to recommend to him, but it's not their top priority at the moment."

"Why not? Wouldn't that tie up a lot of money?" Claire asks.

"The attacks," Dean points out. "The attacks got on the news and he only put up one camera to prevent more break-ins. The security drive-bys are part of the land deal- they just come with the territory. So, either this guy is trying to get more drunk teenagers to report hauntings there, or he's trying to let the property value bounce back after bad press. One way or the other, he doesn't wanna take a hit on that right now. He can probably wait a month and sell for full price, convince a construction crew it's not haunted, or convince the fucking _Ghost Adventures_ guys to film an episode there. Either way, he just has to bide his time to make a profit."

"So what's the inside of this place look like?" Sam asks. "You haven't shown us yet."

"We don't know exactly," Aiden says. "We know from the witnesses that it's... kind of a maze. We have the old blueprints but the updates were taken off the record at the county planning office. Someone probably just got paid to throw them out. That's why there's a rumor about a huge fallout bunker being under the place."

"Probably more like a sex dungeon," Chuck mumbles.

Dean points. "That's where my money's at. So we take the basement last, in case. Right?"

"In case??" Krissy scoffs. "You really think they opened up some sort of demon portal with a rich-people orgy?"

"Or the basement's full of bones from a family that drank the spiked Kool-Aid after the Cold War and hasn't been put to rest. We've seen it before," Sam shrugs.

Chuck rubs his eyes real hard and hisses something about party hats.

Aiden pulls up a photo on his phone. Starts passing it around. "As for the condition of the building? I met with one of the victims, forwarded her selfies to myself. You can see that stuff isn't quite breaking down yet. The paint isn't peeling everywhere. It just looks like an empty museum. The upstairs isn't so great. There was a leak at the north end. Roof is a little caved in. So there's some unstable walls on that side of the house."

Chuck gets the phone and thumbs through it for them both.

No saggy wallpaper, at least. Easy to paint on. Orbs in every picture.

"What did the victims look like?" Josie asks.

"Shredded. They got clawed at," Aiden holds up a folder.

"Why aren't we looking at wolves for it?" Claire asks.

"Wolves don't use words," he pulls one of the photos from the file. A fresh clawing over a carving in skin. Sam can't read the words.

"It says 'for all time,'" Cas translates. "The family was French."

"So, okay. When are we gonna be ready to do this?" Krissy looks around.

Dean holds a hand up. "Can we at least get the break schedule for the rent-a-cops?" he asks Charlie.

She points at a computer. "Working on it."

"Alright. So, let's do lunch and then, if we at least have a rough idea of the security team's schedule, we can figure out when is best."

"And we need more paint," Cas reminds him.

"And we need more paint," Dean agrees. "Cas and Josie, you look like the most respectable citizens out of all of us. You'll go raid the local home improvement stores. They'll never suspect you for secret occult taggers." Dean straightens from his slouch against the wall. "While we're all still in the same room? Family updates."

"Oh!" Krissy says. "We should at least bail Aiden out when he gets caught," she teases. "Friday's his birthday!"

There's a low rumble of excitement.

"Birthday party!" Charlie bounces on her heels.

"Fuckin' A, birthday party," Dean agrees. "And! Also!" Dean shouts over them before they can get too chatty, "Charlie's car is on its last... tires," he announces. "So if you see something easy in town, call it out and we'll decide if it's good to lift. Got it? Maybe look around the houses, first. As it gets colder, people are gonna start leaving their keys in their cars as they warm em up in the morning."

They all agree and start splitting off.

Claire grabs Sam again and yanks his arm. "Your room's this way."

Sam grabs Chuck's hand and they scoot through the crowd, linked up like kids on a field trip.

Claire helps bring their bags in.

Chuck seems distracted. He's rubbing his eyes again.

Sam takes a breath, concentrates, looks in himself.

He'd be able to tell if the bind were projecting signs that Chuck's about to remember too much. He knows how to monitor his husband well enough, now, and he hasn't seen that same, sudden slice of light or felt an emptiness of feeling start hazing the other side of the bind over.

He can't even feel the fabric-softness going taut or any regular sign of a headache. Chuck's just trying to focus on something.

Sam tosses the last bag down and comes close to scoop up his head. Chuck drops his hands and lets him.

"What's up?"

"Party hats."

"Sorry. I know. That hunt was a pretty frantic one."

Chuck shivers. "Aiden thinks he put the strong team on the north end. So why does he have me coming in from the north?"

"It's not a stronger team," Claire objects. "He split us up pretty evenly, I think."

Chuck frowns and shakes his head. "Yeah, _we_ know that, but Aiden wouldn't think so."

Sam kinda wonders why Chuck would say that.

"He probably wants Krissy safe on the south side and he doesn't care if you trip over shit on the broke-down side," she shrugs. "Or he'll make you do all the work and him and Krissy will just disappear to make out while we bust our asses."

Chuck sighs and shifts and shrugs. "Makes as much sense as anything. It's not a bad plan."

"Can't fucking believe he'd offer his ass up to get arrested for real, though," Claire drops to their couch, kicks up her feet.

"That is pretty unbelievable," Sam agrees.

He kisses Chuck and scritches through his short hair. "Let's go to the stupid Mexican place Dean's so damn excited about. Then we'll review which sigils you're gonna use and rig up some salt so it'll be easy for you to carry." He nods and lets Sam hug him.

"I think it's funny Chuck has to study to hunt and we just have to not get our heads kicked in," Claire says. "Why are you letting him come, anyway? I think Aiden can do the north wing himself. I don't think we need a fucking lookout," she gripes and chatters as they unpack and find their wallets and whatnot.

Sam taps her boot after a while. "C'mon, Flipper."

She sighs. "Sure thing, Kraken."

"You assholes can just leave me out of this," Chuck follows them out, locks up.

"What kinda fish is Aiden, anyway?"

"Why would I let him into my ocean?"

"Chuck," Sam chides, rounding the Impala to hold their doors open for them.

"Fine. He strikes me as a nuclear-class submarine, though."

"No teeth?" Claire asks from the front passenger seat.

"Lunky. Prone to causing border disputes."

She snorts, "Nice."

Dean comes out and clunks into the driver's seat. Sam gets in behind him. "Everyone else has had enough of those fajitas. Can you fucking believe it?"

"Hell no," Claire says with sincerity. "So it's just us?"

He points and Josie heads out of the room to knock on the window. "Front or back?"

Claire scoots.

Dean glares at him in the rear-view and he just grins.

"So many ladies in his life," he oh-so-casually mentions to Chuck.

"Yeah, wow, just like he always wanted," Chuck smirks and eases into a bit more of a sprawl.

Ultimately, Dean doesn't say anything back.  
Just smiles. Because he loves all his girls.

«»

They sprint through the dark in twos to get to the wall. They've got 30 minutes until the security car swings around again. 80 until sunrise.

The house should still be active at this hour.

Sam and Chuck duck out to the wall and Sam takes it at a run to reach the top, hauls himself up.

Chuck does the same, does his best to reach, but Sam has to catch his hands and pull him up.

They hop down onto the property. Sam steadies his landing and presses a kiss to his head. "Call if you need me," he demands. "Shout for Dean if you have to. Be careful."

"You, too. Love you."

Sam takes him to his hiding spot to wait and sweeps a hand down his back as he leaves.

He meets Josie by the garden door.

They nod and move their salt guns from their backs, secure their extra ammo, and slip in through a busted window.

The place isn't yet riddled with beer cans and painted profanity. The quarters are close in the staff rooms and pantries.

He gets a feeling like someone's been here recently. It nags at him. The rooms are easy to clear, silent.

He wants to take his EMF meter from his pocket but if it wails to life they have different problems than his stupid feelings.

By now, Charlie and Cas should be at the front and back meeting in the great room. They'll move back in to meet each team soon.

It's gonna be the fucking basement.  
It always turns out to be the fucking basement.

He shakes his head and Josie mouths _what??_

Sam rolls his eyes at himself and keeps stalking forward.

They pause at the sound of a snap. Then proceed with caution, to circle the area where it came from.

Nothing pops out at them over a half hour of careful sweeping.

It almost looks as if there's been cleaning done. He wonders if the owner came by after the attack to assess the damage for himself. Or had an assistant do it.

They get a warning from Cas before he meets them. Knocks two times and twice again.

They round a corner, guns first, then nod.

Sam's getting a really eerie fucking feeling all of a sudden. He feels like he's been hunted himself. Or played.

He looks to the corners as they emerge into the hall. Then he turns back the way they came.

It's a strong creep. It would have to be to start bothering him, of all people.

Like he missed something. He starts looking for a door down to the basement.

Cas follows, trailing Josie.

"Charlie?" she whispers at Cas.

"Not yet," he shakes his head.

Maybe a security situation. Maybe Aiden needed backup.

Sam's fucking _missing_ something.

"I think a door to the basement is around here. Feels too damn-"

"Clean," Cas interrupts.

Sam nods, absently, squinting into the dark without the flashlight for a moment.

Cas turns away down a hall chasing after his own feeling. Josie looks between them but follows Cas.

"I think there's a--"

It hits him.

It hits Sam.  
And Sam drops everything.

Sam _runs_.

«»

They still can't speak through the bind. But Chuck is _sorry_.

He can freak out as loud as the bind will allow and he can be completely fucking agonized at being the one who has to do this to Sam. Do it to him again. Leave him alone when he swore he wouldn't.

Then he shuts it down.  
Clamps off.

And another half of Sam's available oxygen cuts out from where it's already strained as he _runs_ , barreling through the property, clipping himself on rotted-wood doorways and simply _through_ one window with only half a pane left.

By the time he gets outside, the knife has long left Chuck's back and his lung's filling with blood. He's gasping on the ground like a fish out of water when Sam crashes down next to him. His fingers are going cold. He can't return Sam's grip properly.

" _CAAAAS!!_ " he hollers over his shoulder twice before fumbling for his cell and barking directions to Dean. He drops the phone and holds Chuck's head. "Please don't close your eyes, please don't go anywhere sweetheart, Chuck, Chuck, no," he babbles. Sam yanks his jacket off to wedge it at Chuck's back.

All Chuck can rasp is that it hurts and blood comes sputtering out of his mouth as a breath turns into a cough.

"I know I know," he turns away to yell for Cas again. It's cold and empty everywhere and he might bring his eyes back to Chuck to find him dead. He can't look away again. It might happen between blinks. "Stay with me. Don't do this, please don't do this, I'm gonna fix you, you're gonna be okay you're gonna be fine, you gotta open the bind back up, don't leave me alone like this, please. _Please_. It's cold and empty and my heart is breaking," he cries, starting to sob. "Please don't go. Please. I fucking love you please don't stop breathing."

But it isn't like Chuck has a choice. He at least lets go of his chokehold on the bind. Sam feels the rush of it. More than he's felt before, _goddamnit_. All that Chuck has been holding back from him, all that Chuck's been restraining until Sam felt okay with their connection: he couldn't possibly watch Sam like this and not do what he asks; he loves him. He _loves him_ and there's _sorrow sorrow sorrow_.

It only makes Sam gasp and cry harder.  
Apply pressure, but it feels fumbling and futile.

"I killed you. I let this fucking kill you. I fuck up everything. Please don't fucking go," he grabs Chuck's jacket and rattles him this time.

Chuck can bring his hand up. Almost can't breathe anymore. He can grab on to Sam's left. Two fingers of his hand. Around his cold rings.

Rattle of an "h" on a last inhale like "hurts" or "help" or "how could you" before he stops breathing at all.

Sam can't see himself from the outside. That would be too easy. To watch himself pounding and trying to breathe for him, soaking his hands and mouth in Chuck's blood, red-blue in the gathering dawn. He's there in the moment, very-very present and nothing he could do to fix what he just broke for-good-forever-forever-forever-

Cas crashes over his back, stumbles to his side and his whole palm slaps to Chuck's head but it's still a dead-cold, terrifying, empty moment before

 _he gasps and jolts_.

Cas backs off and Sam immediately ducks in, probably crying harder than he was when Chuck was dying.

He nearly falls on him moving to grab him up and hold him close. Chuck finds his own hands, slick and bloody but grabs back, anyway. Fists full of Sam's clothes and holding him close. Sam buries his head in Chuck's neck and _just bawls_ , loud and hot, into his skin. Chuck raises one bloody hand to bury in his hair and his throat almost closes trying to make soothing noises.

He coughs, then hacks, and Sam startles, pulls away to grab his face. "What's wrong??"

He pulls back to turn and cough more and choke up blood onto the ground next to him.

Lists to the side a little from the rush of oxygen to his brain.

With no rational thought left, Sam just _panics_. "Sweetheart, _no_ ," he scrambles to snatch him up straight again.

"He's alright. There's still blood in his airways," Cas explains and gets up.

Sam starts fretting over him all over again and Chuck handles his head and pulls him into a kiss so he'll shut up.

"Stop," he requests. Coughs.

Sam shuts up and uses his hand to wipe the blood off Chuck's mouth.

Breathing looks stressful right now. He looked too startled to panic at first, but now he's trembling and freaked and he'll hold it together but Sam needs to get him hidden before he has to really just break down and reassemble himself.

"Please juh pi-" he tries to cough up more but it doesn't come and he just hacks himself exhausted. Leans into Sam. "Please just pick me up and take me home," he finally requests, thin and flagging.

"Of course," Sam kisses him. "Of course."

Sam puts his arms under his legs this time and scoops him up. He cradles Chuck close because he can't bear to do otherwise. Cas leads them to the front entrance and Dean is running up the opposite end. He stops when he spots Sam and puts his hands to his knees to breathe. Claire skids behind him and gasps Chuck's name before darting out to meet them. Sam puts him on his feet and she says, "You're all fucking bloody I'm gonna hug you anyway," barely a warning before she does, her words all running together and then her collided into him.

Sam's at his back to steady him. He doesn't let go of Chuck completely. His hand is at Chuck's back. Palm over the holes in his jacket and shirt where the blade went in.

"Dean!" Chuck shouts and Dean turns to look back inside the house.

Because it's just Aiden.

"It's just Aid-" Claire starts, pulling away.

But Sam.  
Sam can feel Chuck's sheer fucking panic. He shouts for Dean, too, and that's when Dean gets it, turns pulling his gun out and swings it to Aiden's head.

Then Chuck's angel blade comes out.  
In Aiden's hand as he lunges.

Cas barrels past to help Dean.  
Sam gets Chuck behind himself.

Claire tries to move around Sam but he pushes her back, too, and turns to her, "I can trust you with him," he pulls his gun out and hands it to her, then turns and pulls another gun from behind himself. He leaves Claire to guard Chuck. Ten steps -- that's all he needs.

Marches toward the fray, up the front steps, the demon inside of Aiden tossing Dean at the wall, blade-to-blade with Cas. Sam marches in, raises the Colt, and simply executes Aiden, bullet hissing in the side of his forehead, just a foot away from planting the sword, thrust up, into Cas's belly.

Dean is still picking himself off the ground when Aiden hits the floor, frying from the inside.

And Sam got to kill the guy - the demon - who killed Chuck.

When Dean approaches Sam he gives the Colt up to him. Just spins it. Turns the handle. No fuss.

Dean breathes relief.

Yeah. Well.

Cas motions to Claire.

When Sam turns in the doorway, Chuck opens his arms for him to step into.

"I'm okay," he insists.

"You're really fucking far from okay," Sam says into his hair.

"I don't wanna leave you alone," he whispers.

Sam only clings.

"Where's Charlie?" Claire demands.  
"Krissy?!" Josie calls across the yard.

Dean spins the barrel of the Colt and nods. They don't split up this time. They head out to find them, guns and blades all out.

Chuck grabs at his shirt but they don't move. Sam holds him. Holds him and stares down at Aiden's empty eyes in the dark hall.

Then closes his own to press his face into Chuck's hair. "I didn't say 'I love you' back when we-"

"Don't. I'm alive. You're alright. I'm fine. You can live with yourself. It's okay, Sammy. They're just three words I know in my bones already. Give me three different ones. Come on," he prompts when Sam can't think of anything. "Three other good words."

"Never leave me," he counts out. "Please be okay. Stay with me. Only ever you. So fucking sorry."

"You're perfectly okay," Chuck counts out himself. "Sam is good. Sam is brilliant. I'm gonna fall."

Sam helps him sit and crouches in front of him.

"I'm okay," Chuck says, gulping air. "I just. It's just. I've done that twice now. Died. That's very Winchester of me."

Sam can't stop touching him. He palms the side of his head and trails his hands down Chuck's arms and thumbs at his knees.

There's shouting and Sam snaps him up closer, turns away from it, shielding him.

"They just found Charlie, they've got her, it's okay," Chuck says into his shoulder.

He turns back to look. Dean's got a steadying hand on her back and she's half-stumbling, holding her head. Claire is with them, still looking freaked.

"Oh god, did he tag Charlie, too??" Chuck holds on tighter.

Sam helps him up.

"I found," Charlie seems to be having a hard time getting her breath back. "The security car. Two bodies. He got to them first. He was separating us. He came after me and he- I almost got him so he ran. I think I passed out from my leg."

Cas must have healed her injury. It must be blood loss that has her slumping. Her jeans are a mess. It looks like there might have been a bone snapped through them.

"He broke her leg," Dean helps her sit. "Cas and Josie are still trying to find-"

"Krissy!" Charlie calls, looking past them.

Sam turns and Josie and Krissy are running past them to get to her.

They land on the stairs and throw their arms around Charlie.

Cas gives Sam a wary look, coming back. Carefully climbs the stairs and pulls closed the front door as the questions start to fly.

Then Krissy looks around.

"Aiden? Guys. He's- Aiden's missing."

They've all gone quiet.

"What the fuck, guys," she demands.

"Where is he?" Charlie looks up to Dean.

Dean doesn't flinch.

"Why were you at the north end, Krissy?" he asks low.

She stands and rounds on him. "Where's Aiden?"

"Why were you on the north end?" Josie asks, standing, too. Backing Dean's play.

"The fuck? He told me he'd take the south. He wanted me watching the northwest corner."

They all exchange long looks.

"Why there?" Dean asks gently.

"I." She stops. "I don't know. He was in charge this time. He said to go someplace else and I went."

They're quiet.

Krissy finally seems to notice Chuck, huddled against Sam. The both of them bloody.

"Where is he?" she demands again.

Cas comes to her side. "The Colt is what took the demon down. A demon took Aiden from us," he says.

She looks dead at him.  
Her lip twitches into a sneer.

She barges past him to open the front door and freezes when the little bit of dawn light falls in.

Yanks it back closed.

"And who was holding the Colt," she asks, ice cold.

"Krissy-" Dean steps forward, but Cas blocks him. Holds up a hand to pause all other movement.

He closes in on her.

"First of all, you must understand. I am the last barrier between Crowley's henchmen and this family," he says, sounding incredibly pissed-off. "I have a sight that should see past any skin and into the soul beneath and whatever Crowley put inside that boy used him as a shield. A glamour. That let me think he was human and let him get past our defenses and prevented me from seeing what he was. Prevented me from stopping an attack on Charlie. Prevented me from stopping Chuck's death."

Chuck shudders in Sam's arms and Sam holds him tighter. It feels like a vice goes around his own throat and he tries to breathe through it.

"So," Cas concludes. "We have two massive problems here. Crowley's only gotten one demon by me this way before. And we have you."

Krissy finally starts to look frightened.

"Cas," Charlie climbs to her feet.

"This will only take a moment. You'll forgive me if I don't ask first." He simply plants his hand on top of Krissy's head.

Charlie stumbles trying to reach him but Dean rights her and holds her back.

It's over a moment later.

"She didn't know," Cas declares. Turns to them. "And she's human."

Claire sighs actual relief.  
Josie doesn't. She holds out her hand to Krissy.

Krissy doesn't take it. She's staring at Sam.

She only nods. Shakes her head. Tears finally come and they're silent.

This opens a whole new box of problems.

Josie takes Krissy off the property, holding her close and rubbing at her shoulder.

Charlie turns to them. She steadies herself. Comes in close to where they're huddled together. "Lemme look at you," she requests.

Sam lets Chuck tug out of his arms.

Charlie flinches seeing the hole in his back before he turns to her.

She goes white and clamps her lips shut.

"Can I-" she doesn't finish. She kisses her bloody hand and presses her fingers to Chuck's forehead. "Go home now. We've got this."

"Charlie, we-"

She stops Dean. Straightens her spine. "I need to see the body." She looks to Sam. "We've got this."

That's an order. They're dismissed.

She does allow Claire to walk them back through the woods and to the truck.

"Don't do that shit again," she says through the open window after Sam has settled Chuck down. "If Sam wasn't here I'd punch the fuck out of you."

"Please don't," he slumps in the seat.

Claire climbs up, kisses her hand and smacks it on his forehead, a little harder than Charlie did. Drops down and waves until they can't see her in the rear-view anymore.

The sky looks heavy and, as the sun rises, the sky goes from pink to purple and back to gray. The clouds roll in to match the dense humidity. It doesn't exactly put Sam at ease. He keeps the headlights on and drives slow, careful, back to the motel.

He keeps looking over at Chuck. When he offers his hand out, Sam clings to it as often as he can, sticking to the slow lane and flinching over potholes.

Chuck stares at the console but doesn't turn the radio on. "Can I tell you something?"

Sam cringes at the rawness he picked up from coughing up his own blood. "It sounds kinda painful when you talk but I'm fucking dying to hear you," he admits.

"I need something to drink. Everything tastes like. But whatever. I need to tell you something."

"Anything," Sam glances to him.

"I know we had a timeline. But. Sam. I wanna retire from hunting," he says, cautious.

Sam nods. "Me too," he breathes. "Let's just be books."

"We'll go if Dean's in trouble. But otherwise. Let's be books. I'm sorry your husband isn't a heavenly warrior," his voice goes wobbly.

Sam shakes his head. "I don't need you to be. I only need you to be you. I'm retiring with you. Charlie will keep me in line. She'll make sure nobody tells me where the hunts are if we keep showing up. We'll tell her the plan. I'm only working with you from now on."

Chuck takes a deep breath. "I don't want you to have to do this. You don't have to do this with me. But. I think I have to ask you to."

"Chuck. You don't even have to ask. I either retire now or I die on you. Or watch you die on me. I've seen people I love die up close too often. I thin-" his voice cuts out on him. He tries again. "I think I hit my limit."

"Please don't cry," Chuck attempts to breathe steady. "Stay calm with me. We're both okay," Chuck tugs on his hand.

"We're almost okay. I'll be okay after I check you over," Sam takes a deliberate breath and tries to find more calm.

"Good. Let me tell you what's gonna happen. Ready?"

Sam takes another breath and nods.

"We get to the motel. You buy me water from the machine because there's none in the fridge and the taps here taste awful. We brush our teeth and take a shower. You take my clothes off and put me in the water and do whatever you need, look for whatever you have to, make sure all my parts are in the right place-"

"Then I put you to bed while I pack. And I drive us away from here." He loves this plan. Seriously. It's a fucking balm to his rattled soul.

"I'm really hungry."

"Good. That's good." That happens a lot when people get yanked back. "I'll drive us away from here and we'll get food for you. And whenever you're not sleeping you better be talking to me. I don't even care what the fuck you talk about. As long as your words never leave me. As long as you don't leave me alone." His voice fucks up on him all over the place. He's certifiably fucking screwed up right now.

It starts raining and he reaches far to the opposite side of the steering column to turn on the windshield wipers rather than letting go of Chuck.

"I can't fucking believe I did this again. I watch my family run itself into the ground. We had a plan so this wouldn't happen and I couldn't fucking stick to it. I knew I wasn't gonna stick to the timeline. I was playing it loose and changing my priorities from week to week and. I couldn't stay and build our house and keep you safe. I had to watch you goddamn _die_ on me. I fucking tried so hard, Chuck. Does your chest hurt?"

"I'm fine. Cas fixed me all up, Sammy, I'm fine," he tries to insist with his ragged voice.

"I was trying to keep you with me. Trying to keep your lungs working. Pounding on your chest. It didn't work. You must have been gone at least a half minute before Cas got there. Not long enough to agree with whatever your reaper was trying to tell you, at least," he shakes his head. "I let you fucking die on me. Just like everybody else. If we ever do hunt again, you're still only ever supposed to be backup and I'll be backup with you. You're never gonna be alone on a hunt again." He slams his hand on the wheel. "How the hell long was he possessed? He had the tattoo, just like everybody else."

"Sam. Dean hasn't trusted him for _months_. I don't know. It might even have been the whole time. He was always a fuckhead. I never felt right around him. I don't think I've got extra senses but I do have... something. I know what Dean sees. And whatever filter he sees through, I never saw Aiden as one of the good guys. He was always _playing at_ good. I was never okay around him."

"I'm sorry I didn't ever ask. I should know to ask, by now. You've got a better, like, general moral radar than anybody. You sense things with dimension." He should have known after their first hunt, all together, Chuck losing his lunch and Aiden laughing at him. But he was too wrapped up in thinking that Chuck's unhappiness was about the traveling and hunting and being in too much company. He was too busy feeling frustrated that Chuck didn't fit in. How fucking absurd is that, now? He couldn't goddamn _function_ without this anymore. His family _loves_ Chuck. He's a piece of their whole, now.

He takes Chuck's hand back up to kiss over a few times at a stoplight. They're a mess, the both of them. Sam's lips leave slightly cleaner prints on the back of his hand, picking dried blood up from it.

"I'm never dying on you again, I promise. You're gonna be stuck with me for a long time. You don't get out of constructing a house that easy, pal," Chuck says in relatively good humor.

"Write that on my arm so I can tattoo it into me. Sign it and I'll go get it inked."

"I will not, in good conscience, stand for watching you mar your beautiful arm like that."

"I've been thinking about getting a tattoo of a hermit crab, though," he smiles against Chuck's skin and adores him.

"Please no. No tattoos. We don't need to do that," he rolls his head on the seat, so very tired.

"Wouldn't that be cool, though?" he keeps kissing. "Like a giant squid all the way down my arm and really tiny there on my ring finger, a tentacle holding a little crabby crab," he teases, fucking adoring the incredulous look on his husband's face.

"I am alarmed that you've put this much thought into it. I'm, like, actually alarmed. If your arm is all tatted and healing up over a bunch of weeks, how are you gonna hold on to me properly? I'm too selfish and impatient to watch you get tattooed like that. Just stop."

"If I'm not hunting anymore, I won't have to hide any identifying marks-"

"Shut up. Green light," he motions at the intersection and Sam keeps driving.

He tugs on Chuck's hand. "I'm kidding. You know I'm kidding."

"I know. Because if you really liked tattoos, you'd have a ton of them by now, rebel."

"You make me think about it. You make me want art all over my life. You make me want to read more fiction and get your signature stamped into me. You make me wanna hear stories and tell stories."

Chuck considers this for a quiet moment. "That's so awesome," he sounds a little awed, tugs on him a bit. "Sam, you deserve a beautiful life. You deserve that. I want you to have lots of art, honey."

Sam goes warm. "We should tell a story later. You're really wiped out right now, so think about it for a while and you can start it and that way we'll keep talking. While I drive. While I drive us back home."

"Okay," he sighs. "I can do that."

"Oh god," a lamentation crawls up his throat again. "You're so exhausted. You lost so much blood. Oh, sweetheart. I'm so fucking angry at myself," it honestly _chokes him_.

"Please don't be. We both decided to keep hunting. I'm the one who said I'd come with."

"Fuck. I'm so lucky I get to sleep with you. I'm so lucky I get to take you home today. I can't believe I get to call you my husband."

"If I weren't so drowsy I'd be melting over here. You're so wonderful, Sam. I love you so much," he unbuckles and comes closer, across the seat, to get under Sam's arm.

When they get back, Sam buys three waters and makes Chuck chug one right away as they walk back to the room. Then he undresses the both of them and holds Chuck up in the shower while he cleans them off. He leans against the wall so Chuck can slump against him.

Sam has to take Chuck's rings off to wash the last traces of the blood away. He puts them back on and puts the soap back down and holds Chuck and cries into his hair for another couple minutes. He tries not to, but he _sees_. Sees the way this could have turned out. He's seeing himself clean Chuck's body off, remove his rings, wrap him in a sheet. Sees himself stack the wood for a pyre. Sees himself wanting to climb in with it as it burns, Dean and Cas each gripping his arms so he doesn't.

He's so sad. He's unbearably fucking sad.

Chuck lets him lose it for just a little while. He of all people knows that, sometimes, it feels like the only way you can let sad things go is to cry them out of yourself really hard. Chuck's had to on more than one occasion. He doesn't try to tell Sam it's okay. He keeps close and breathing. Keeps steady. Holds on tight.

After a while, he presses his hands all over Sam. He needs Sam to shake it off and drop the image from his mind and feel his hands instead. He turns Sam's face down to kiss, looking sad and sad and sad. He thumbs at Sam's cheeks and pulls him down to kiss his forehead. Presses tight and doesn't move away from him. Doesn't go anywhere that Sam doesn't.

Chuck needs to feel Sam's hands, too.

"Hey," he pulls Sam's head away from his shoulder and brings him down into another kiss. "We're gonna write books and keep each other alive. Okay? Build a house and make art and figure out how to keep making each other happy."

Sam sniffs and nods.

"You can wash my hair. If you really want to."

"Oh god," Sam gasps, takes a snotty inhale and wipes his face off. "Thank you."

Sam is gentle but he doesn't take too much time. He rinses the both of them off and draws Chuck out of the shower. Towels him off and brings him to the room to find clean clothes.

He gets Chuck dressed first so he can tuck him in and let him doze for a while. The rain really kicks up outside and Chuck closes his eyes.

Sam pauses in his route around the room every couple minutes. Watches Chuck's hands rise and fall on his chest.

He could _touch him_ and never let go right at this moment. He wants the bind to act as a proximity alarm. He wants to never go so far away again. Never risk what could happen in his absence.

Chuck is wiped out. That has to be why the bind is so quiet. The other end of it is open and there's a steady flicker of movement, a soft-sheet breeze so he _knows_. But it's not entirely reestablished. Like an elevator car stuck between two floors.

Fuck him. Fuck him so fucking hard. He didn't do anything he said he was going to. He's such a fucking asshole. He didn't ramp down the hunting. He didn't keep Chuck safe. He didn't work any harder to protect his mind. He didn't work on the bind with him.

Sam hasn't been working on his marriage.  
What kind of goddamn idiot is he that he needed a wake-up call like this?  
He always tried to be so fucking _smart_.

He packs. Packs and checks everything. He reloads his gun and then shuts himself into the bathroom to put clothes on and pull the angel blade out of his bloodied jacket. He works on it until no trace of Chuck's blood is left on it - shining and clean. He emerges again to place it with Chuck's phone and wallet and pen.

He kisses Chuck on the head and moves everything toward the door.

The phone buzzes.

"Yeah," he answers quiet.

"Sammy. You guys alright?"

He takes a deep breath. "Good as we can be, right now. Going home, soon."

"Yeah. I know. He'll be alright after he grows some blood back. Feed that guy, he doesn't do it very well on his own."

Yes. Sam knows that. He knows what he's been neglecting.  
He's about four seconds away from keeping charts and graphs and feeding him on a schedule.

"Listen: the whole deal with. Um. Aiden," Dean swallows loud on the phone. "You gotta fucking tell Chuck that I'm sorry. Sammy, I'm sorry. I'm so fucking sorry. God. I should've known."

"What about this is _your_ fault, Dean? Stop it, man, it's-"

"Krissy's been having that whole-- I was. Goddamnit. I was such a bad. I was. I didn't _pay attention_. I donno. I thought it was, like, _young woman_ hormonal shit or something. But she's been having problems with him for a long time and I should have listened more. She's sad. She's angry. But. She doesn't seem to be acting entirely like this came out of nowhere, you know what I mean?"

Sam squints and thinks and goes to sit down on the end of the bed, finds Chuck's ankle beneath the sheet and holds lightly. "So. You think she knew? That at some point-?"

"Yeah. I think she did. Sam. The fucking body-- the tattoo? Half of it was carved off. He got it on his foot because he thought it was ugly so he just said he always wanted to keep his socks on. She thought he was just another kid with _issues_ or whatever. I can't fucking believe we bought that."

"Could you stop, please? Dean. You're not actually who they answer to. You're just trying to help them make it into the real world. You're not at fault here."

"Right. Fucking sure, okay. _Months_. They were living and working with a demon for months. I should have listened to Krissy better. I should have _listened_. She knew something was wrong but she was just working through it. He could have been _abusing_ her the entire time. I kinda wanna thank fuck he only played mind games, but she's messed up about it and I fucking feel awful. This dude planted himself-"

"Or someone planted him," Sam points out. "They got the tatts when?"

"With Jody, before she told us about Bobby's-- about the property."

So he wasn't a demon back then. When could they have gotten to him? "When did Krissy say his behavior started changing?"

"The first time she said anything was before Claire decked him and ran off to stay with you guys."

Claire knew. Something swells beneath Sam's ribs and he's so-so proud of her. Chuck's totally right. She can call their place home if she fucking wants to. She's gonna look out for them while they get lost in each other. She won't bat an eye. She's gonna be their protector. He loves her _so much_.

He rubs his thumb soft over the comforter, over the knob of Chuck's ankle. "Dean. I promise we'll deal with this, okay? We'll figure out what happened. But me and Chuck are going home. We need to handle the rest later, okay? I'm not sure how much more of this I can do right now. I need. I just. I think we said a lot of shit we haven't made good on and. I'm going, okay? And we need to change some stuff. We need to hold each other accountable to the shit we said. So. Just. Stay safe, okay? Take everybody back to the bunker. Take inventory. Check on each other. Make sure Krissy's alright. And call me later."

Dean sighs. "Krissy's gonna wanna know-"

"I know. I know, and I know I'll be sorry at some point. But. Dean. He ki--" Sam rolls his lips and can't say it. "I can't be sorry I shot him right now. I couldn't possibly fake it. But if Krissy needs to punch me in the face, still, after a while? She can do it. I wouldn't change a goddamn thing. That much I am sorry about - how much I wouldn't take that back. But I wouldn't. I would not change my actions."

"Yeah." He knows Dean's nodding. He knows Dean understands. "Yeah. I wouldn't, either. Alright. You guys, um. Tell me where you're at. Updates, okay? And. Just. Let us see Chuck in a while? Bring him down or something. Or we can come visit. But. The girls, they need to know. The uh. The others. The ladies." They're not great at reformatting their language sometimes, but Dean is trying to physically shift himself into a different mindset over this. Sam can tell. It's good.

"Okay. But. You know how we said we'd be stepping back? Dean. It's gonna happen. That's gonna happen sooner rather than later, now."

"No, I know. I get it. You're right. I'm not even supposed to be going out as much as I am. I got." He moves into the wind and says quiet, "Cas got on me for that a couple weeks back. That's why him and me were-- and now this. Now all this."

"Well. That's what we get, I guess."

"I guess."

"Dean, I have to go be with Chuck, now, alright?"

"Yeah. Later. Be careful."

"Yeah. You, too."  
He ends the call and climbs up to kiss Chuck.  
"You ready to go? Or you need a few more minutes?"

"I'm awake. My stomach is fucking grinding. I'm so hungry," he blinks his eyes open.

"Okay. I've got your other jeans. I wiped your shoes off, but," he shrugs. "Best we can do for now."

"Yeah," Chuck pulls his hands out of the covers and offers them up for Sam to pull him to a sit. Kisses him again when he's upright.

"I can't wait till you get a little more color back. I need you to look less. You know." Dead.

Chuck winces. "I know. I'll eat and I'll rest and it'll be like nothing happened. Promise."

Sam comes in for his mouth again and can't help but tug Chuck up tight to just dive in. He ends up gasping and clutches at the back of Sam's neck.

Sam is shaking. Can't stop kissing him. Running cold with I-never-would-have-felt-this-again and I-lost-this.

"Hey," Chuck tries, has to pull back from Sam's mouth again, "Hey, Sam. Open your eyes?" He waits and Sam blinks and finds him. "I'm okay. You need me to prove it? You're not alone. You're not gonna be alone-"

"I came very fucking close to being alone," he insists, harsh and quiet.

"But you're not. You're okay. I'm alive and I'm whole. Well. I'm fine. But I'm not whole."

Sam breathes out, a gust, trying to keep calm. "You're whole when you're with me. We're not parts. We're whole people. We're two very whole people because of each other."

"Damn fucking straight. You're so good at this," Chuck praises him.

"It really upsets me that I can't just sit around with you asleep on my lap for the rest of the day," Sam confesses.

"Okay. Let's plan a stopping point for the drive back. We'll pull over at a certain time- after lunch? And we'll get a motel, and do exactly that. Let's just get a little closer to home today."

Sam nods and tries to sniff back the things surging in him. "By 'home.' Can we mean our real home? I know we can't live in it yet. But can we. Can we start packing up the apartment and- maybe a place closer to-"

"Yes."

Sam breathes easier. He just... looks for a while.

"Okay?" Chuck barely whispers.

"Yeah. Finally."

«»

He hands Chuck into and out of the truck and escorts him into the diner and wedges into the booth with him.

Chuck only gets half-way through his breakfast when he goes from starving to nauseated.

"It's just the blood loss making you feel all fucked up," Sam rubs at his back. "We'll box the rest up and you can sleep it off in the car."

"It's not just that. God. I feel fucking seriously sick," he bends and puts his head on the table.

Sam has already had about enough of this day. Why wasn't there a warning at the beginning of it? A few signs. Mismatched socks, misplaced wallet, bullet wound in his leg. He'd take pretty much anything over this.

He reaches down and feels at Chuck's stomach. Soothes and taps around and makes sure nothing feels unusual. Nothing gets him jolting up in pain, nothing appeared out of place in the shower, and he's pretty sure he didn't rupture his appendix as a bonus to the day.

Chuck holds his hand there and Sam rubs a while, kisses his shoulder. "I can go steal you some blood and an IV or we can go back to Cas."

"We don't pay him enough. We ought to get him something for his creation-day."

Sam smiles against Chuck's neck. "What's his creation day?"

"Well, time wasn't really invented yet, but approximately the last week of July."

Sam has no idea how Chuck knows that but he can laugh at it at least. Kiss him again and let go to flag somebody down for the check.

Back in the truck, before Sam can call anyone, Chuck says, "There's something else." He's holding his stomach and hunched and not breathing so well.

"Sweetheart," he reaches out toward him.

"You have to feel it. You have to by now or something's really, really way wrong. You can't feel that light?"

"Light?"

"You can't," Chuck nods, seeming to have his suspicions confirmed. "Okay. So I don't know which one to freak out about first, so I need your help to prioritize and you're gonna have to calm me down in a minute." He swallows, harsh. "I uh. There's this light. In my head. It's getting pretty hot. It's um. It's coming from the hall. The. The like," he motions vaguely, "the side of the hall."

"The hall?"

"Fuck," Chuck closes his eyes. "And you can't see it." His voice starts breaking apart. "You can't feel it," he starts to really panic in the breaths between the pain. "I think I broke the bind? Sam. I'm freaking out," his voice rattles.

Sam gets back out of the truck and comes around and opens his door and kneels in with him and just... needs to press his hands to him.

He's wrong.

The bind is there. The path between them is carpet and cotton instead of a more luxurious softness but it's there. And he's _sure_ that Chuck is at the other end. But it's gray and shapeless and it's not what it should be. It's almost like when he clamped it off earlier, when he thought (knew) he was gonna die.

He picks Chuck up as carefully as he can and gets into his seat and rocks him on his lap. Holds him and tries to keep track of what's left at the end of the bind.

Digs his phone out of his pocket.

Charlie answers on the third ring.

"I need you to free Cas up to meet us. Now."

He has the easier job at the moment, but it doesn't feel like it: he has to be solid and reliable and promising for Chuck. He has to convince him everything is okay.

Chuck has to try not to die twice in less than three hours.

«»

As soon as Sam lets Cas into Chuck's head, he insists on putting him into a coma.

"Now, Sam," he insists, urgent, not fucking around one little bit. "Now. Not when we get back to the motel."

Chuck is barely hanging on as it is. He doesn't appear to have heard that.

"Gimme a minute," he decides.

"Sam-"

" _Give me a fucking minute._ "

He hauls Chuck up from his huddle and moves him. Dean opens the back door of the Impala when he gets to it. He lays Chuck down there and climbs in, awkward and too big in the footwell, trying not to crush him.

He palms Chuck's head. "You need to look at me one more time. One more. Open your eyes. I promise the pain is gonna stop soon."

Chuck opens his eyes. He is seriously fucking frightened. The pain can't be seen from the outside. He's locked in his head with it.

"Okay. I'm gonna let Cas put you to sleep so you don't hurt. I don't wanna do this but it's how I can take care of you, okay?"

"I'm scared."

 _Fuck._ "I know. This is so fucked. I'm so sorry. We're gonna fix you. I don't want you to hurt. I'm gonna give Cas permission to put you out and get in your head if it helps you. Tell me I'm allowed to do that?" he begs.

Chuck nods. "'Kay."

"You didn't break anything. Maybe it was something Aiden did. Maybe it's a hex bag we can't find. But we will figure it out. I swear. I'm gonna fix you. I can't live without you anymore so don't slip off away from me, okay? Just sleep and rest."

Chuck can only clench his jaw and nod. "Love you," he manages between his teeth.

Sam pushes his hands into his hair and kisses him. "Love you, too. Don't go far, okay?"

Cas opens the opposite door.

"Castiel. You have our permission," he says, not looking away.

Chuck nods and his hand shakes when he lifts it.

But not all the way. Because Sam grabs it up and Cas presses two fingers to his head pushing him down deep.

Sam watches his eyes close. He's out cold.

Cas kind of reels back after, swaying away from the car and Dean is there to get him by the elbow.

"Hey," Dean draws him in, careful and quiet. "Cas. Babe."

"That hurt," Cas seems amazed to report.

"Just putting him to sleep? Did he burn you?"

"Yes, but not with the bind," he confirms, definitive and grim. "It's him. It's getting too hot. I think I know what happened. But we should."

He considers Sam and Sam can't look at him anymore. He folds Chuck's limbs so he'd be comfortable and moves to the seat. Moves to put Chuck's head in his lap.

"We should stabilize him and I need to investigate," Cas finishes.

Cas reaches down to get the keys from Sam's coat.

He doesn't help.  
He looks up to his big brother.

"You're gonna be okay," he nods, solid. "He won't die. You're gonna be fine," Dean looks perfectly certain.

He knows that face and it never fails to speak the truth to him. He has to believe him.

«»

Dean doesn't let the others hang out. Claire starts tearing up and Sam can't take that so Dean has to close himself out with everyone.

Everyone except Cas.

Cas had to sit and brace himself in a chair by the bed and he's got a hand on Chuck's head.

He pulls away and shakes his hand every once in a while like he's been holding it too long over an open flame.

Sam has asked. It's _not_ because they didn't give permission properly. They did what they were supposed to. Something else is wrong.

Chuck doesn't twitch. His body temp is normal. His pulse is decreasing from its frantic, pre-coma pace.

If Cas doesn't speak soon Sam's gonna fucking deck him.

He pulls his hand away again and opens his eyes. Wipes a hand over his mouth and considers what to say.

"Dude-" Sam starts to snap.

Cas puts a hand up. "I missed this because it was seamless," he starts. "The only reason I was able to figure it out is because you're being _open and patient_ ," he says pointedly. "And you're keeping Chuck calm as long as you don't yell. As long as you don't let panic surge too far across the bind."

Alright. Fine. He gets that. Sam takes a breath. Lets it out. Keeps his hand on Chuck's. "Do you need more time to figure it out?" his voice comes out flat.

"I will need time to heal it."

"Can you explain in any human terms what's broken?"

Cas is considering for another moment.

Sam turns to him. "Is this the point where the prophet stuff finally kills him?" He needs to know. He feels blank. He didn't get to be married a full goddamn year. He didn't get to finish the house. He didn't get to wake Chuck up on enough birthdays. He knew his life would be short but it had started to feel like he turned a corner and there was just this _highway_ broken out ahead of him, racing over the hills and through deserts and between mountains and he really, really thought he'd have some _fucking time_.

"I might have supposed so. But. You've kept him calm. And he's stepped aside. He showed me into a. Um. Hallway?"

Sam swallows back how unfair that is. That Cas got to see it before him.

But, man. It hurts. Honest, it does.

"Okay. What-" he has a million questions. He wants to let Cas into his own head so Cas can show it to him.

But the key to his lock is unconscious. Lying here unable to give Cas permission to so much as touch his temple and show what he saw.

"The thing is, it's seamless," Cas tries to explain. "What is any standard, human structure, real or imagined? Four walls and a roof," he explains. "Four walls. Sam. Chuck only built three of them."

" _Walls._ "

Walls. Walls in your brain hiding things from you. Sam's been on one side of his own wall before. Sam's fallen through it and burned and boiled and suffered on the other side of it.

He grips Chuck's hand too tight. He's gonna break something or he's gonna let go and stroll outside and hurl all over an empty parking spot.

"Who. The fuck. Could have. A wall. A. How could he. He wouldn't know? Who would have," he sputters, sneering, jaw tight, angry and baffled and _sickened_.

"I am," Cas shakes his head. "Just very confused. I can't say with absolute certainty, Sam. All I've got is a theory with a sound basis."

Sam loosens his hand and taps his fingers on Chuck's skin. "Okay." And?

"It's seamless. I mean, absolutely natural. It seems as if it was supposed to be there. It seems as if it was built right into Chuck. As if there was no reason for his mind to ever reject it. It wouldn't have itched. It seems stable and natural." He thinks. "But. Do you remember when faults first shook you? When the wall in your mind started _leaking_ things?"

Sam nods. Because yeah. Vividly.

"You would stumble and fall and see things you couldn't disconnect yourself from."

Oh, god.

"In theory," Cas goes on carefully. "Chuck's episodes probably got worse after his car accident. Only he didn't see them as such because at least they didn't come with headaches and new prophecy attached. It was just a different kind of pain; he used alcohol to haze it all into a similar hurt and get through it. And the significant reduction in episodes recently, is, I suspect, a result of your marriage. Weak as you may find the bind to be, it was healing whatever had cracked in his wall upon his first death. It was working. It was holding things in place for the most part. But this death? It was different, Sam."

"It-it-it was less violent. Cas, that makes no sense," he sputters. "He got stabbed, it wasn't totaling a _truck_."

"But," Cas halts him, "it tore at more than his own mind and his own soul. It tore at the roots of your bind. Making the damage more significant." He points to Chuck. "There is a steady leak there that is unlike anything I have ever seen. It's brighter than the shine of hell that shone through your damage. It is much. more. powerful." he clarifies. "Much."

"So whatever he's blocking out." Sam puzzles out. "It's stronger and bigger and meaner than hell."

"Yes." Cas sits back and crosses his arms. "To a degree I haven't seen- I haven't." He shakes his head. "I haven't seen it since my earliest days." He rubs at his jaw again. "Which leads me to my theory. And. I have a hard time doubting it, given the strength of the evidence before me. But that doesn't stop me from wanting to doubt it just for my own." He shrugs. "Peace of mind."

Sam's so fed up. "You have to _show me_."

"You know I _can't_. You know there's a _reason_ I can't and I shouldn't and I _won't_. Even though the binding is loose, I wouldn't go against Chuck's wishes to sneak into your head and show you. That is supposing I could. You'll simply have to wait for him to recover. You established this bind for a reason, Sam."

Yes. Yes, he fucking knows that.  
This is goddamn maddening.

"Fine. Then what the fuck is it?"

"What's spilling there, what his mind was trying to push back and contain so hard it made his body want to give in, is something so." He looks for a word. Rolls his lips. "Um. Bright. So incredibly powerful. It's. Creation. And. I'm not talking about the kind of histories he's seen as a prophet. There's a handiwork to the wall and a... flavor to the heat on the other side of it. It not only makes me think that it was something he was _built for_. But I think. He's been _used_ for what he was built for. I have no other explanation. It's as if." He looks around the room and breathes. "It's as if he were used as a vessel. And not. Not by Michael or Gabriel or Raphael. The wall is too-"

"Seamless. Yes. I get that," he bites out. "Lucifer?"

Cas frowns almost as if that were laughable. "The opposite. The extreme opposite." He considers it one more time before he says it, with a dubious weight and a reluctance that doesn't quite fall far enough to make it doubtful. "My Father?"

"Father." Father father father. As in. "As in. _God?_ "

Cas exhales like he knows. But. _You know??_

There are a million reasons this doesn't make any sense.

"Why not an archangel?" he has to know.

"What's coming through the wound in his wall is nothing like what paralyzes the vessels of archangels," he shrugs it off. "It's thousands of times more _essential_. Not to mention. Luminous."

Hot.

Sam taps his fingers again.

"Fine. Fine-fucking-fine. Okay. We can argue about this and how fucking crazy it sounds later. What do we do about it _right now?_ How do we fix my husband so he doesn't turn into a vegetable? How do we stop the leak? Can you work on it? Is there _anything_ we can do?"

Cas nods. And it's so offhand and certain that Sam could straight-up weep with relief. He moves his hand to stroke up and down Chuck's arm, his wrist.

"Tell me. What are we doing? I wanna fix it now."

"It _will_ take time."

"I have nothing but time." _I have nothing._ Ever since Cas put Chuck out, he's felt a solid freeze blowing in from his spine to his lungs and ribs and heart. His insides frosting over.

Cas considers for a moment, then wraps one hand around Chuck's wrist, the other around Sam's. Closes his eyes.

Sam doesn't feel him try to come in. And he's pretty sure he'd notice him burning from the inside.

"I would have to physically handle your souls to see, but I did suspect, even from my earliest reading, that the bind forced souls to carry matching marks in order to communicate." He lets go of them. "I can't make a wall. I don't have that kind of power. But I can help him heal himself. His wall is well-established. It is inclined to heal itself just as Chuck is inclined to protect himself from pain. And your bind will have to do the rest. It will have to reestablish itself. Which means most of the work falls on your shoulders." He considers. "I will likely have to show you how to do that. As far as I can tell, you haven't been able to use the bind for anything other than your cursory wishes. You may have been able to feel ease and unease in Chuck through certain indicators. He may have been able to prevent others from breaching your mind and soul. But you haven't pushed it to a level where it works as clear and open communication."

"Hold on. That can actually happen? Like. This whole time, if we had just been practicing?"

Cas shrugs. "More or less. With effort."

He can't fucking believe himself. Chuck said this _exactly_. Chuck wanted to practice and they never got around to it. Just like Chuck wanted to ease back from hunting and they never got around to it.

He sweeps a hand back, clenching at his own hair and tugging. "I actually just failed at 'Spousal Communication 101'. Holy fuck."

Cas looks a little sympathetic. "If it's of any consolation, your brother requires remedial courses and more than a little upkeep. I don't think you're doing so badly."

"So." He knows the answer to this, but, "Can we wake him up, yet?"

Cas shakes his head, as predicted. "It may be a few days," he says as gently as he can. Then he sits forward and puts his hand to Chuck's head again. "But if you'll allow it? I can start figuring out how to help him get to that point." He closes his eyes. Opens them again. "I don't need to sleep. But Chuck's still human. His mind will need rest."

Yeah. Preemptively explaining why he'll have to stop before Sam pushes it. He sighs.

"You have permission. Totally."

Cas closes his eyes again.

"Can you, um. Cas. Can you at least see him? Speak to him?"

"He's surrounded in words. Pages. He wants me to know them. It's hard for him to speak when he can't _speak_."

Sam blinks. Tries to imagine it. "What do the words say?"

Cas's lips are a flat line. "That wouldn't bring you any comfort right now, Sam."

Fuck. "How could this really be capital-G, God?"

"He's the source of all mystery. Anything could happen by His desire, Sam. This feels more fearsome and raw than anything I've ever encountered from an angel. This is definitely foreign knowledge and that - I am completely positive - is a wall fabricated to protect Chuck's mind. I think now we'll be left to wonder something more puzzling."

Cas pauses as if searching for the words.

"Such as...?" Sam tries to prompt.

"Such as. Whether or not God needs permission to inhabit a creation. What kind of different things Chuck is made out of in order for him to withstand such an occupation. Why he would have chosen to keep living with this potential time-bomb instead of seeking the peace he was likely offered in heaven." Cas smirks a little.

"What?"

"I have my assumptions." He takes a deep breath and pulls his hand away, opens his eyes. Weirdly, still smiling. "I never took the opportunity to tell you, Sam." He nods. Looks up to him. "I was truly happy to see you so happy. So honestly cared for and so sincerely trusting it. I'll admit that it took me some time to see the best in you. And I'm sorry about that. But it's hard not to see that when it means so much to Dean. And it does. Always _has_. So to finally see some of your self-loathing crumble-- better yet, to see it through Dean's eyes? It's been. Almost rewarding? And while I don't exactly congratulate myself on facilitating your marriage - I mean. It would have happened one way or another. But. I was proud to have been a part of it. I think we all were. We were. Quite proud to have done right by someone who so deserved it."

Sam can hear the world outside the motel room. He can hear the A/C buzz in the room above theirs and the leaky faucet in the bathroom. He can hear the breaths Cas doesn't have to take and the ones Chuck does. A silence too, too kind to him.

He sees something in Castiel's words that is harder to handle than the initial supposition that God was the one who used Chuck up and tossed him back into the roil of humanity.

He sees Cas's answer to his own question: What could have kept Chuck here? What option could have overshadowed heavenly rewards?

That's not cute. That's not cool.

He remembers the story Chuck saved to his phone. The way he implied that sometimes it was worth it when Zachariah knocked him around because he knew, by then, that Sam was real and he was protecting him, keeping Zach off his back.

His chest hurts. He wants to pull Chuck into his arms. He wants Chuck to pet his hair. He wants to hear Chuck's dry voice. He wants to feel Chuck's toes bumping his shins. He wants to go home.

Cas very kindly closes his eyes and goes back into Chuck's head while Sam covers his face and falls apart.

«»

This is a nightmare. This has got to be a fucking nightmare.

It's been a long time since he picked something up and really dug it into his hand. He stands locked in the bathroom and jamming things into his palm. He starts with the end of a toothbrush and it feels too numb so he picks up different things until he's flipping his knife to the sharp end and holding it over his hand. Thinking about it. Really thinking about it.

Puts it away.  
Takes his boot off and whacks himself with the heel so now the numbness is just his nerves shorted out.

Yesterday they were telling stories. Making love. Sharing coffee.  
Today Chuck could have been gone.

He still might go.

It's not as if Cas's certainty holds sway against everything that's meant to be. It took them, collectively, a lot of effort, a lot of trickery, a lot of split-second decisions to the contrary to stop the biblical fucking apocalypse from sliding directly down the tracks it was made to ride.

If Cas is wrong and this goes south. If-- then it won't be fast and it won't be merciful. Today has already shown Sam that. It won't be Mom, gone before he knew her, haunting and loving him. It won't even be Jess, hanging on his heart forever after, a gold-lined promise behind bulletproof glass; something he never should have touched in the first place, locked away with the key lost.

This is like Dean's Year wrapped up into hours. Maybe days. Hellhounds sniffing at the door.

He stares in the sink and he wonders if he'll feel the same way he did this morning, the shocking fucking pain of it, life choking out of him as Chuck's life choked him and filled his lungs. The headache-hot tears searing through his face and jaw-clenching sobs. Or will-

No. Probably he will. He'll have to watch pieces of Chuck go up in flames right in front of his eyes. What the fuck does he think he's been seeing this entire time? The memories that faded him out -- this is the source of that. This is _more powerful_ than that. This will ooze up against his self-made memories and consume them like lava.

Will Chuck be more or less when he wakes up?

Will he be full of the divine light that shone on Sam and saw him worthy only as a container for twisted, broken, damned things?

Or will he wake up and not even fucking recognize them? Not even recognize his husband clutching his hand and staring at him, pleading with him.

What if he does plead? What if Sam pleads, actually says, "Please?" and nothing happens. What if it means nothing to him? These hundred little stones scattered between them that were bright when you flipped them over. Sam had no idea these little things could be so important. Significant. _Significant other_.

There's a weight in those words he now fucking despises coming out of other mouths. He's pretty sure Chuck even asked Cas to stop calling them that to spare him.

He gave less weight to words, in the past. The schoolboy assertion that "the pen is mightier" only meant "knowledge is power" and _that_ he could get behind. But then there was "sticks and stones may break my bones" and here words are fucking _ending_ him.

Twenty square feet of skin on a human, give or take (more on him), and he's considering removing five inches of it on his left hand. Considering all the blank space wasted without--

He's got the anti-possession tattoo. And nothing that really _means_ anything to him. None of their words. He wants those in his skin, not another scar. He doesn't _really_ want to hurt himself. He wants their words to be a part of his life even if there's a possibility he'll never hear them aloud again. Something beautiful Chuck's said. Or something he's written. Like that line: "Never, in fact, homeless."

Why does that mean more, now? When he's building a house and he sees the inside of the Impala less than he has since Stanford?

It's not as if the shell of what's standing in South Dakota, so far, could stand in for Chuck.

Maybe it's the prospect of losing his home and returning to that seat again. Unable to follow Chuck and Dean not letting him go on his own. That's what life would look like, again. Rewind and he's back in the passenger seat, only the one he'd hold accountable for hollowing Chuck out would be the same being who Lucifer railed against. He's not even allowed to properly hate his enemy without fulfilling his destiny.

He stares at his hand and he doesn't want to feel pain anymore. He wants to wrap this hand around Chuck and not let him feel alone. Chuck loves his hands. His huge, clumsy, killing hands. Chuck loves him and these hands are supposed to take care of him.

Dean, Charlie, Cas - they stare when he comes out of the bathroom, but it's not like he has anything _significant_ to say.

Eventually Dean makes him sleep. Dean makes him sleep on a bed in another room.

It's a screaming match, a pointless one where he knows he's making no sense and it's because he's not just tired and scared and violently wrathful -- he's willfully irrational at this point.

Dean gets a double and they stay in a room together like old times. Sam holds Chuck's hand for as long as Cas is willing to let him sit there and cling. But he buzzes with anger and fear and he knows Cas can read that without seeing into his mind. He looks to Sam's bruised hand sometimes and Sam can feel the concern he isn't voicing.

The idea that God was the one who did this to Chuck. Packed himself in his tiny space and set fire to half his head... then just left a wall there on his way out.

He agonizes over Cas's throwaway notion: angels may need permission to wear a human. But that doesn't mean _God_ would have asked.

He wants to believe otherwise - even fucking Satan asked for permission. But God seems like the type of prick who wouldn't bother. And the idea makes Sam want to rip the whole world apart.

In turns, it quiets him right back down, too. He's starting to need Chuck's voice back to drown out the echoes of Lucifer's fucking mocking.

As far out as it may seem, someone might have used his husband. That someone might have been capital-G, God. According to Cas, it _definitely_ happened. And it might shorten an already-brief prophet's life. He'd take his own post-wall pain back if it meant healing Chuck, but Cas doesn't seem to think the job is beyond his own and Sam's abilities.

He insists until Sam _listens_.  
They're going to fix Chuck.

Dean drags him off to talk to him. Can't make him get in the car and drive around, but they walk around the hotel. Get into a fistfight, evenly-matched and leaving them nothing but worn and sore. And, still, Dean understands.

Sam replays these things in his head.

He lost his phone to a bad fall a couple weeks ago and couldn't recover his old texts. He digs through Chuck's hoodies until he finds his in a pocket, charges it, and reads as far back as he can. He hides in the Impala for a while and finally connects his own new phone to his cloud account and pulls up his old audio file. Backs up the end and listens to it four times. "Then come find me. Come home. I love you. You're incredible. My actual, literal savior. My actual, literal sex machine. My actual, literal, only and singular best friend. My partner. My Sammy. My significant other." It drives him nuts to stop the file completely and replay it in his brain. He hears it as if through his own voice. Attempting to conjure Chuck's real-life tone is completely useless. It's never going to be as good as the thing itself. The recording of their conversation used to comfort him when he was away from Chuck. He could dial it up on his phone and listen and feel the words and know that they mean twice as much, now. After weeks, then months of sharing life with him.

They'll never mean anything ever again if he can't look forward to having Chuck in his arms and repeating them for real.

He's considered the possibility that Cas is being overconfident to keep him calm. If Chuck takes a turn for the worse, he's going to force his way across the bind and dump his memories all over the place until Chuck can hear him. He's so fucking angry with himself. They could have been communicating. Seeing each other. He needs his memories. Needs to keep his sense of Chuck close so he can try again.

Fuck, he wants _one more fucking chance_ to get it right.

It's sheer exhaustion that runs Sam off to sleep both days, for just a few hours both nights. He can't wait for Chuck to wake up and get exasperated with him for it.

Charlie sleeps on the couch in the room with Chuck. She doesn't mind one bit; wakes up every couple hours to check on him and make sure he's not twitching or waking or burning up. She only lets Cas in when Chuck has had six hours in his own head. She only lets Sam in when he's had at least three hours sleep and he slips past everyone to go pick the lock.

Sam's so much of a wreck he laughs at himself. He looks in the mirror and laughs at his unshaven face. He looks at Claire's worry and laughs. He looks at Dean's wary eyes and laughs. He looks at Charlie's understanding and laughs.

Everything is hysterically awful.  
It's literally only been two days.

He's allowed to hold Chuck's hand because Cas says it's easier for him when he has explicit, close-range permission to not get choked out by the bind.

The way he says it is _so_ scripted. Dean had to have told him to say it.

Sam asks again, because he has to know. Cas is busy working but he's gotta find out. "What do the words around Chuck say?"

Cas pulls back to say, "Sorry."

"Is that you or is that what he says?"

"That's some of what he says."

"What else?"

"Words he's written. Pages of words. Things he's written that he's rereading. He's trying to figure out what we've been discussing. I haven't exactly been able to tell him. He probably won't remember when he wakes up, anyway." Cas hesitates one more moment before putting his hand down again. "Some of the words are broken. Mangled."

Sam tries to breathe. "Like he can't figure them out?"

"Like-" Cas closes his eyes again and puts his hand down.

"Like brain damage," Sam assumes aloud. "Like permanent damage has already set in."

"No. Like he's mixing languages he doesn't know how to speak. It's going to take him a while to get used to what he doesn't _understand_ that he now understands. He's struggling to straighten it out into useable information. For how much damage there is, he's doing a remarkable job of holding himself together." Cas frowns. "Which only backs up my theory."

That Chuck was somehow specifically made to endure this.

Eventually Sam is banished to go eat but allowed back in because Cas needs him.

" _Chuck_ needs you," he clarifies.

So, yes. Yeah. He's there. "What happened?"

"He's found his panic again," Cas says like he's annoyed by it. "I have to start showing you how to push forward so he can hear you. Otherwise we won't make progress."

Okay. But he tightens his jaw. "When can we wake him up?"

"We should take this slow, but he might not let us. If I can't bridge you to him it will have to be sooner rather than later."

 _Fucking bridge me_ , he thinks. Because he'd rather see him now than wake him up hurt and panicked with all those other words surrounding him that Cas won't tell him about.

Cas can't exactly show him how to go across the bind. Whatever instructions he's trying to give Sam just don't translate. It might be the threat of having to leave himself behind which he's never been good about doing. He's tried meditation and shit and he can't even do it for fear of elevating his mind and leaving his body and... what that could mean to anyone who found the two disconnected.

So he feels like it's his fault and, apparently, the self-flagellation isn't helping Cas at all.

He lets go of both of them, frustrated.

"I don't think any two mated souls in history have ever had to be forced to speak to each other," he falls back into his chair.

And, you know, _that stings_. He wants to demand that Cas help him try again but he chooses the easy way, instead: using himself as a bridge between Sam and Chuck. Being more of a lens than a guide.

"Cas? Not exactly a genius, here. Next time maybe lead with the 'easy' route."

Cas rolls his eyes. Grips their wrists again.

Sam and Cas are both allowed in Chuck's head.  
Chuck allowed Cas in before he got knocked out.  
And he allowed Sam in directly after they got married.

He feels underdressed or something. He doesn't feel ready to have ended up in the hallway that he's only ever heard about.

It's kind of like he imagined?  
The dimensions are a little off. Still the institutional feel of a high school in Anyplace, United States. The same shape doors. It's endless, like Chuck said it was. To the right and left, a corridor with no visible third and fourth wall, despite what Cas implied.

Along one side, there are narrow, rectangular windows near the ceiling, which vaults up to a point. To the opposite wall.

And the opposite wall is bleeding.

Bleeding what looks like grace, bright and blue. With an added green. Like earth and sky both.

Cas is a presence here more than a form. But he leads Sam down past a dozen doors to a figure on the floor. Scribbling on pages. Being frantic about it. Like a book burst open and he's trying to reassemble it with chapters missing that he has to rewrite all on his own to connect the pieces.

The pages. The pages that Sam always felt fluttering when Chuck dropped off into a deep sleep.

Cas wasn't joking. They're fucking everywhere. He is truly surrounded.

Chuck imagines himself even smaller than he is in real life.

He stops, spotting something.  
And looks up to Sam.

Sheer relief slumps him the same way it tightens Sam's chest. He shakes out his hands and pencils go flying. He stands and he presses on a door on the opposite side of the hall. The side that's not seeping light.

He presses the door.

Right. Yes. Sam knows what this is about.

He walks forward, presses on the next door. It feels very different. Chuck's hand in his grip in real life, Cas clamped around his wrist, but he finds a way to push- like Cas said. Push forward and he presses.

Chuck accepts it. Looks more relieved. Appreciates it something _fierce_.

They work together. They walk down one way and press on doors until Chuck turns and leads him back the way they came and they press on doors past the mess of papers and they press and press and press in the opposite direction down the hall.

"Good," Cas says like relief.

Only he's yanked Sam out of there so hard and fast he's fucking shaking. "Why the FUCK did you do that?" he snaps. He didn't even get to _say_ anything. Didn't get to try to touch him. Didn't get to look in the windows of the doors or pick up the pages on the floor or try to touch the gel-thick grace glow on the opposite wall.

"That was all you could do, Sam. I didn't understand what he needed but you did."

"I need to go back there," he snatches Castiel's wrist.

Cas, _politely_ , does not break his hand removing it. "You need. To let me do this for a while longer. Just a while. That should have helped. But you saw the wall. There's still too much 'brightness'. I need to fix some more of it before we wake him." He turns gentle after a breath. "But we will wake him soon. Sam. You're alright. It will be a few hours more. But that's all. You won't have to pass another full day without him. Alright?"

All his words get caught up in his throat again and he shakes his head, nods his head, shakes his head. Sits still. Keeps hold of Chuck's hand and sits, terrified, thinking about how - recording or no - he's forgotten what Chuck truly sounds like.

«»

Claire comes to get him for an early dinner. She takes him to the second floor and they eat burgers with their legs hanging through the rails.

"You gotta shave," she says after a while. "You can get away with that when he's around to watch you grow it out, but if he wakes up and sees that time has passed on you like that, he's gonna be sad."

Sam knows that.  
Drops his head against the rail and stares off at the endless shopping centers and apartments.

It hasn't even been that long. He's just stressed and harried-looking. He finishes as much as he can eat and grabs her head and hugs it to him.

"Can I use your shower?"

"You better. You stink."

«»

Charlie sits in front of Chuck's door. She looks up when he comes back around.

He checked in the mirror. He looks a little more sane. She should let him in.

"There's a running joke that Chuck is god, now. I think I got bumped down in the hierarchy."

He shakes his head and tries not to be impatient and dismissive about it but.

Yeah. She just stands up and lets him in.

Cas is putting his jacket back on.

Sam sits on the bed, where he has been, frequently over this past few days.

Castiel flexes his jaw and considers what to say. "This is going to be disorienting. He'll remember some of what's been going on but not enough. It'll be dream-like for him. He's also not going to have much of a choice in the _other things_ he starts to remember. Whether he deals with those in that confused manner where he disappears behind it is entirely up to you two. I think whatever reactions he has to it may be reduced in severity as you practice with him - as you work to repair and reestablish the strength of the bind. Which _can_ be done." He takes a deep breath. "My theory? Well. I'm pretty sure I'm right," he shrugs, "as I have no other reasonable explanation for it short of." He pauses. "I have no other reasonable explanation for it," he amends quite simply. "The fact that he was able to remain standing after that damage says something about his essential make-up. If I'm able to wake him and he's able to function, that probably means the wall was there from the start. That he was intended to be a vessel as much as you or Dean." Cas waves a hand. "His destiny was fixed and. Like you?" he smirks. "In the Winchester fashion? I think he. Shrugged it off. And moved forward anyway."

Cas didn't tell him that Chuck might not wake up.

He really was being over-confident to keep Sam functional.

If this is true - and this is so off-the-wall fantastic that, god, he really--

Sam stops his entire train of thought.

You know?  
He is really, really going to adjust his whole _language_ after this entire ordeal.

That selfish-shit in the sky. Goddamn deity.

Anyway.  
Whatever.

The thing is? If Chuck wakes up for nothing more than for Sam to tell him he's proud to have been married to him, proud to have another unreasonable, rebellious, no-shit-taking Winchester in the family -- if that's all he gets? He'll take it. He'll take any small number of minutes he has left with him. No matter how many it is, ten or ten million, it won't be enough.

He didn't marry him to have him temporarily. Not in any sense. He married him for the endless road.

He squeezes Chuck's hand. He wants this now. Right now. "Please wake him up."

Cas nods and clears his throat.

Sam gets up and decides to get on the other side of the bed. He climbs up and faces Chuck and Cas has to close his eyes and furrow his brow like he's gotta physically drag Chuck's consciousness back to the surface.

The first thing Chuck does is slap Cas's hand away, eyes flying open, cringing in the opposite direction.

Cas puts his hands up and backs away.

Chuck's head twitches and his hands do and his eyes slide all around the room and over to Sam and up and down him.

Chuck reaches for him.

"Hey," he breathes and takes his hand. Pulls it so Chuck can reach his neck and leans over him. "Take it easy? You're in a motel room. I'm here. Cas is here. Charlie's here. You're okay." He pauses. "A-are you? Okay?"

Chuck looks back and forth a little more. He tugs on Sam so he comes close. "Please?" he whispers.

And it's the right one. Sam's allowed to kiss him. He does, soft and lingering, his lips, his cheek, his head.

"Do they have to be staring at me?" he asks in the same low tone.

Sam turns. "Guys?"

Charlie couldn't hear, but Cas could. He turns to round the bed and open the door. "We'll be outside."

When they're shut in, Chuck tries to clear his throat but winces.

"Wanna try to sit up?" He grabs Chuck's other hand and offers to pull him upright.

"Gotta pee."

"Oh. Come on." He climbs over and pulls Chuck to stand. He doesn't know about his balance or his strength, but Chuck only winces again and stands up just fine.

His throat clicks because he needs water. But Sam helps him into the bathroom first, hand lingering on his back until Chuck nods.

He leaves the door cracked because he's fully paranoid. But he goes to get water and gives him a minute before he rejoins him.

At the sink, Chuck splashes water on his face and into his hair and down the back of his neck. Sucks down a handful from the tap before Sam can even hand him the bottle. He leans on the counter and talks at their shared reflection. "Um. Everything's a little hot. And bright." Sam notices the squinting.

"Okay." He turns off the bathroom light and helps Chuck back across the room before he goes to the door and hits the light switch, clicks on the A/C so it rattles to life. He starts pulling the heavier curtain over the flimsy one, but Chuck waves him off.

"Thanks. That's fine, thanks. Come here? This is. Weird. This is like a hangover."

"How's your brain?" he sits next to Chuck on the bed and can't help himself - has to pull him in and handle Chuck's legs across his lap and put his arms around him. He knows he's probably too hot for Chuck right now, but the A/C is pumping and it will chill down in here pretty fast. He needs this. Hasn't had it for days. Hasn't had him responsive and close in _days_.

Chuck wedges his arms in, hugs around him as best as he can reach. Relaxes into him. He sighs like relief and rests his damp head. "I think that. I'm gonna stick to the basics for a while. Like. I don't know. I'm. Um. I think I don't wanna think for a while. I feel like I've been taking exams or something. I want like a burrito bowl and a rerun of _The Dark Knight_ on tv or something. Something I've seen a hundred times. I wanna zone out for a while."

He's been too zoned out for Sam's tastes but he knows Chuck was working. He knows he wasn't just lying around - he was trying to stay in his head for Sam. "Cas and me should probably tell you what's been going on."

"Yeah probably. But can that happen somewhere with guacamole?"

Sam is able to laugh at least a little.

He calls Claire. She runs out to get Chuck's food for them. Sam turns on the tv and settles Chuck in before he goes outside to report what's up.

Charlie runs to go hop in the car with Claire. Cas and Sam talk with his foot wedging the door open.

"He's wrung out. He said it feels like a hangover, then he said-"

"I can still hear through walls," Cas points out.

"How are we gonna handle this?"

"Let him wake up. Let him eat. Let him finish watching that television show," he points, "Then you tell him. I honestly think the rest of us should leave for the evening. He'd be easily overwhelmed right now."

"What if something happens? What if we need you to-"

"I'll stay. And um. Play the." He motions vaguely.

Yeah. Charlie got him addicted to Rollercoaster Tycoon.

"Okay?" He's not so sure about this.

Cas puts a hand on his shoulder. "Sam. You need to acclimate to a new role now. Chuck put himself in place to protect you. Protect you and your head from invasion. In doing so, he established a bond between you that was subtle but strong. To protect _him_ , now, you will need to exercise. Like you do for the rest of your physical strength. You need to focus on what I helped you see inside of Chuck and push it forward so he understands that the hallway connects to space within you. It does, already. But neither of you have felt around in the dark for it. You need to work, now. If you must build a shared space between you as you build your home, well," he tips his head like Sam should follow.

He kind of does.

"Was this really just a matter of not trying harder before? For us to find each other through the bind?"

Cas wavers. "I don't know if a stronger bind would have resulted in more damage during this break. Or." He shrugs. "Less damage. I don't know. Every... every car accident is different," he shrugs. "For example."

So pretty much they just have to dream up a way to make it work until it does. Not just rudimentary psychic protection, but the connection that Sam guessed, after a while, just wasn't part of the deal.

He should have known better. Should have known that there was a flexibility and opportunity for growth there. The bind has changed in small ways. Chuck demonstrated things within it that Sam marveled at but had no idea how to replicate. In fact, Chuck was holding back on his full grasp of the bind until Sam was ready to feel that. He held things _back_. Sam felt that after he was stabbed. After he was _stabbed_ and went silent to protect Sam. He begged Chuck to let go and he did and the other side of the bind was clearer than before. Because he let all his control fall in the face of Sam's pleading. Sam wants that. He wants that back. Chuck shouldn't have been protecting Sam from himself. That's his _husband_ , he _chose_ to get tied to him-

Cas interrupts Sam psyching himself up: "Please also remember that his mind is in somewhat of a disarray right now. There are things simply open for inspection in the hall that he is unfamiliar with and may not even have the capacity to understand. They can be overwhelming. But if he comes closer to you, he should be able to handle them. It's about... distance? As well as a shared burden."

Okay, he's suddenly ready for Cas to shut up now.

There's no faster way to remind Sam that he's got what amounts to _an insatiable hard-on_ for his marriage than to suggest the possibility that he'll be able to shoulder some of Chuck's burdens. Which will make him happy. And when he's happy he relaxes. When he relaxes he wants Sam to touch him. When Sam gets to touch Chuck he normally gets to caress and sex-up the person who saved him from becoming a self-loathing, lonely-empty shell.

"Tutorials. We may need mind-walking training," he notes. "Is he stable enough to be awake? Should I make him rest?"

"His stability will increase if you devote time to... replanting the roots of the bind. After a fashion. If you push yourselves to find one another, you push forward and show the bind what it ought to be to you, to keep you both in place and secure in what you've built. And he should be walking as much as possible. He was just immobile for days. He should move some."

God.  
He means _fuck_.

Whatever.

All he can think about is going home. Both sleeping in Chuck's arms and being in their apartment. Sharing space in his mind and putting together the parts of their new house.

He wants to go now.  
But he can't be hasty about this. And he certainly can't stay far from Cas right now.

Just in case.

"Thanks," he finally says, and gets eager to duck back inside.

"Not a problem," Cas nods. "I'm happy I could help you both."

There's that honest sincerity from him again.

It's starting to twist in his guts. Starting to make him so fucking angry at the rest of the angels for not understanding or caring what kind of amazing brother they had before they ran Cas off.

Sam clamps him in a hug before he can escape and doesn't mind at all that he only smiles and blinks into it this time.

Chuck has crawled into the sheets and wrapped them around himself. He blinks away from the old ep of South Park he found.

"Cold?"

"No. Perfect," he pulls the sheet tighter.

Sam climbs into bed with him and brackets him with his legs, kicks the covers he isn't using out of the way.

"It's harder to tune Cas's grace out," he reports, sounding bummed. "He's walking away but I'm gonna know where he is."

"Look on the bright side," he rubs Chuck's arms through the sheets, "you're the only person he can't sneak up on."

«»

Claire stays for another episode after delivering Chuck's food. She stays and silently frets and pretends to laugh at the cartoon.

Dean eventually wanders over to collect her. After he shoos her out to the car, he comes to steal one of Chuck's chips. Puts the back of his hand to Chuck's forehead and nods at his temperature like the mom he pretends he's not. Scrubs a hand in his hair until he ducks out of the way. "We'll see you guys later. Call if you gotta."

"Where is all this head-touching coming from and when will it end?" Chuck gripes lightly.

Sam will tell them they're still not allowed to touch him without warning him. But, for now, he conks his head against Chuck's and breathes into his hair.

And they're alone. Sam hasn't run through many of the details yet, but Chuck said he's also straightening some stuff out in his head.

"You wanna go first?" Chuck offers.

"No." He tightens around him, presses his head to the back of Chuck's neck. "Sick of myself. Missed you." He's triple-hungry for Chuck to talk to him by now. Being in his head and seeing him silent had been seriously disconcerting.

"I want you to get all up on me so fucking bad right now. Like I want you to lock the door and fuck me until I can't stand."

Oh. Geeze. Okay. "Um."

"I know. I'm probably not in the best condition at the moment but you're holding back from, like, smothering me and the last thing I remember is almost dying on you twice. I just need to make sure you don't feel alone. I haven't been around to make sure you're not telling yourself things you'd get in trouble for." Chuck strokes over his arms and pulls them tighter. "You can do more of this."

"You're not hot anymore?"

"I'm gross. I could use a shower. But I'll probably lure you into my watery lair and make you touch me," his voice goes dark and promising.

Sam kisses his neck and sighs into it. "We really have to talk this out first."

Chuck rubs their heads together. "I remember something about you. Like you had Cas tell me I needed to shut the doors or something."

"Kind of. Um. He let me in. Chuck, I went to the hallway and we pushed on the doors together." In a lame attempt to soften the shock, he puts his mouth to the side of Chuck's head and kisses again and again.

Chuck only breathes for a while. "Something's seriously wrong, isn't it?"

"I'm gonna explain Cas's theory as best as I can. Ready?"

Chuck nods.

"If you need to stop and think, or you... I donno. Need me to cover your ears or call Cas or get you more food just tell me. Okay?"

Chuck turns out of his arms to sit facing him. He looks nervous, now.

"So, okay." He stares at Chuck's hands because he wants them. "Best he can figure. When. When he went in your head and saw your hallway? That's where the light and heat was coming from. So. He looked at the wall it was coming from. You know how I told you about Death? And how he went and picked my soul back up and put a barrier - a wall between my working memory and the hell stuff?"

"Um. Yeah?"

"Cas says that's what happened to you. Only it was like. Expertly done. So. What he knows for sure is that you have a wall. And it's seamless," he uses Cas's words, still hating them a little, "it's perfectly built for you. Except. He thinks that dying in the truck accident made it so you had to start sweeping things behind doors. And dy--" he has to clear his throat. "Dying again? That did more damage to your wall. Stuff wasn't just escaping. It was leaking right out like a radioactive spill. Hot and bright."

Chuck stares and thinks for a while. "Why would I need a wall? Did the other prophets have walls?"

"Chuck." He has to fold his legs and come closer. "The stuff that spilled wasn't prophet stuff. It's leftovers from." He closes his mouth because he really doesn't wanna do this. "Cas thinks you were used as a vessel. Cas thinks the damage from it was blocked out using a wall. An expertly-made wall. To block out the hottest, scariest shit he's ever seen. He says. He says it's like. Like _God_ used you as a vessel-- I'm so sorry. Fuck. I'm so sorry." He moves forward and scoops up Chuck's head. "Look, it sounds fucking insane. But Cas puzzled this together as best as he knows how. He didn't want to believe it at first, either, but _from the evidence_ it's the only thing that makes sense to him."

He shuts up purely so Chuck can have a minute to deal with this.

After a baffled moment, Chuck pulls Sam's hands up to his ears and leans in. Closes his eyes. He breathes even and deep and Sam doesn't have enough time to decide if he wants him turning inward right now before Chuck jolts from his grip.

Sam backs off real fucking quick. "I'm okay I'm okay. It's just-" and he says something else. But Sam doesn't understand any of it.

Because he doesn't speak Korean.

Chuck hears himself. Goes wide-eyed. And smacks a hand over his mouth.

"Okayokayokay!! It's okay! You're alright!" Sam reaches back out for him.

He comes. He scrambles into Sam's hold, crashes in, stays tight. "This is a little confusing!" he nearly wails the understatement of the year.

Sam holds on. Runs his hands up and down Chuck's back before he clamps his hands over his ears again, mindlessly hushing him. Insisting that he's alright.

Chuck doesn't move. Sam lets him just hang on.

When Chuck sags against him he drops his hands to his back again. "You want me to get Cas?"

"No. I. Maybe. I donno. I wish you could help me again."

"Well, see, I'm supposed to. Remember how you were worried that the bind got broken?"

Chuck pulls back and looks at him in _horror_.

"It's okay," he soothes. "It didn't. It was almost ripped away but it's still there. That's how I'll help you. You're supposed to handle your head and ask for help and I'm supposed to work on fixing the bind. So I'll make my way in there and eventually we'll be able to share space. We'll really be able to move between it." He pets at Chuck. "Okay? I swear I'll help. I have to figure out how but I'll always help you, sweetheart. You're never on your own."

Chuck closes his eyes and stays close. "Never?"

"They threw me out of the room a few times," he admits.

Chuck opens his eyes. "No one's allowed to do that."

"It was probably for my own good. Probably good for you."

"I don't know if I care anymore. If I have to go to sleep without you again I'll fucking stab somebody. I'm done with this life-or-death shit."

Good. "I think I've decided to adopt Claire as our armed guard. I think she'll go for the mailman's throat if I have to leave you alone to run into town."

"Fuck mailmen anyway." He takes a deep breath. "Tell me what else you saw? It was like a dream, seeing you there. But you really saw?"

"Cas kind of bridged me in. I saw. It's um. Long. In either direction. Windows on one side but not on the other. And all the doors. You were in the hall. Reading and writing. Cas said you were trying to figure out all the new information coming in. He said you won't be able to. Some of it is 'unknowable Almighty God' bullshit."

Chuck starts to say something. Hunches in on himself. Looks lost.

Sam hugs him. "Do you want me to pull up the translator on my phone? Or do you want Cas? You shouldn't feel like you can't talk to me. That hurts me as much as you. I'm worried you'll feel like you're drowning in there and you won't be able to tell me." He pets Chuck's head until he looks up. He pulls Sam close for a kiss.

He nods at the door.

"Okay. Okay. I'm so in love with you," it feels like it falls out of his chest.

Chuck throws his arms around Sam's shoulders and surges up to be kissed again. He takes it until it's desperate and gasping and Chuck tries to lay down and pull Sam on top of him.

"Sweetheart," he warns.

Chuck whines and keeps after him.

"Fine. Okay. Fine. I'm not gonna act like I'm not worried, though. Do you wanna take a shower?"

Chuck shakes his head.

"Do you want to _have sex_ in the shower?"

He nods.

"Okay, alright. We have to do something first. We try a little at a time, okay?"

Chuck shrugs.

"Find the bind? As well as you're able to. And I will, too, and we'll push things and see if they make it across."

Chuck sighs, impatient.

"I'd rather hear Russian or French or Farsi than nothing at all from you. I swear I'll puzzle it out."

"It freaks _me_ out, though."

"I understand. I understand because you've been silent for over two days and I know how bad it freaks me out to hear you being quiet. So when you feel like you can talk, please try to. I don't expect perfection. I just want to know you're not lost or scared or in pain."

Chuck hauls him down again and Sam gasps when the bind turns into the silk it once was. And he could swear that's a roll of _lust_ not of his own making, too.

Chuck's doing that.  
It feels spectacular.

Sam pulls him away and clunks his head into Chuck's shoulder. "See? You're good at it and I need practice. Just let me try once and then I'll do anything to you that you want. Swear."

Chuck starts carding fingers through his hair.

Okay. So.

Hallway.

And he knows what it looks like. Though it's already got the hazy quality of memory.

Sam tries to pull, like, a ball of that helpless _love_ from his chest. Then he worries that's too abstract. So he also pushes this image around: the first time they took a bath together and Chuck sang a song about coffee.

He feels for their connection and the empty-window feeling at the far end of it. He thinks of the hallway and of just playing the image of the bath on the cracked-bruised cinderblock wall. He hopes Chuck is somewhere he can see it.

Chuck shivers in his hold. "We're naked. Bath."

That's better than nothing.

He raises his head and blinks. "Is it cheating if I tell you what it was supposed to be?"

Chuck shakes his head.

"The first time. And you sang to me."

A breath rattles out of Chuck and he crouches up to reposition himself. "Naked. Fuck me."

"In the tub? This one's way too small. And I mean. I know, but standing is also gonna be a tight fit-"

"Right here," he clings and starts shifting-shifting-shifting against Sam. "Please?"

He hesitates just one more time. His little husband just powered through two traumas in a row. He isn't dead because he was dropped into a coma for more than 50 hours. It took an angel that much time to tend to the damage in his head. Damage caused by the second death of his life, a traumatic one. He was dead. He was, in reality, actually dead for long enough that the bind tried to rip its roots free. Now Sam has to fix them or it will get worse.

Chuck was dead under his hands. He started to leave Sam. The bind was hooked into that artificial wall instead of hooked all around Chuck.

So. In theory.  
If he wants to make sure he can keep them bound. If he wants to keep Chuck tied to him so he doesn't lose him after death. If he wants to do _justice_ to their wedding ceremony and their marriage itself.

He has to make himself an unbreakable fixture between them. He has to stop protecting his own headspace.

It is Chuck's job to protect Sam's head and he's done it perfectly so far.

He has to do his own job, now: protect Chuck's mind.

He's so fucking in love. He is irrationally, shockingly, uncivilly, possessively, probably disgustingly in love.

"Will you marry me?" he gasps pressing Chuck down and riding against him.

"Yeah," he moans.

Sam asks like seven more times and it's in Enochian more than once, but Chuck still says "yes."

«»

Chuck shields his eyes from the low evening light. They're cleaned and showered and in new clothes, but still, when Cas answers his motel room door, he says, "Oh. Good. Sexual relations are an excellent tool for strengthening bonds of any kind." And welcomes them in after they roll their eyes at him.

"So. Chuck's having communication issues."

Cas squints at him. "Are you able to speak?"

"Yeah," he answers.

"Sorry," Cas shrugs a little, "but I'd count you lucky for that."

Just when Sam was nurturing an appreciation for how Cas didn't play the alarmist, despite how dire circumstances were, he suddenly feels less generous. He turns the lamp off in the room and pushes aside the curtain for the last of the low daylight, instead.

"He's kind of slipping into other languages," Sam explains. And it's just Cas, so he doesn't give a shit; he sits at the kitchenette table and pulls Chuck into his lap. It leaves the other chair free for Cas.

"Which?"

"Don't know, um, exactly." He honestly couldn't tell if Chuck was just babbling when he came or if that was a dead language of some sort. (He was tipping over the edge really hard, himself, while simultaneously trying to _hear him_. Trying not to drown him out.)

Cas spouts something off. Something blocky and...

"Yeah, but I knew Enochian before."

"You did?! You didn't tell me that."

Chuck shrugs and Sam holds him as he stretches so he doesn't slip, pulls over a sheet of paper and a pen.

Cas says something in a different language.

"Stop it, I came here so Sam could understand me, not so you could confuse me more."

Cas cocks an eyebrow but apologizes.

Chuck scribbles down a sequence of marks. Hands the sheet to Cas.

"This hasn't been used by humans in over four thousand years."

"What does it say?" Sam holds out a hand for it, Cas passes it over.

"'Glory, for this family line may live forever and ever and never fall.' It was written on the burial mound of one of your ancestors."

Chuck is writing something else. It looks like Greek.

"'Of the tales and triumphs of Sam Winchester, son of Mary, son of John...'" Cas reads aloud, upside-down from what Chuck's writing.

Chuck rips each page out when he's scrawled across it and starts in a different language until he tosses it aside and slumps into Sam like he's exhausted. Sam pulls him under his chin and rubs at his shoulder, amazed.

Cas finally looks a little sympathetic. "This is probably just the information he can actually make sense of." He looks to Chuck. "As confusing as it is, I'd advise you to hold on to what you can comprehend. Let the rest sink away. Deal with it later. Push it aside. Put it in another room if you must. You're used to the histories, and we know you can handle the languages at least. If you start to lose yourself in them I'll help translate. But I think you'll do fine. The more Sam helps you, the more you may be able to spread out the weight of what came through."

"Um. Why aren't we talking about." Chuck looks away. "Cómo se dice. Why aren't we. Talking about. What I was. Used for. As a. Meatsuit. As a. Vessel," he pieces out the sentence.

Cas shrugs. "We have no real way of knowing that."

"But I had to agree? Right?"

Cas hesitates. "We don't know that that's true for God. He made it a rule for angels but I doubt He made rules within His own creations for Himself."

He might have just been wandering around in Chuck any old time. Go-d-- fuck. He really doesn't want him to have to think about that.

Chuck's breath speeds up. He asks something and Sam can't puzzle the words out.

"Um." Cas glances between them. "Chuck asked how I know," he explains to Sam. "I can't know for sure. I can't be positive. But it's the only explanation I can come up with. When Sam's wall was installed, Dean researched on his own and found incredibly little information. And, in my experience, you're the first prophet to have-"

"To have gone through this." Sam interrupts, firm, trying to scare him off from the topic of Chuck's age. Cas glares but doesn't continue.

"Why me? Am I from a line? Am-am-is it possible for-- I don't. What if-"

Chuck flounders for a moment like he's got too much to say and not enough space. His breathing staggers.

"Sam," Cas sits back a little. "You have to calm him down. Draw him further down the hall, away from the mess on the floor."

"How do I-"

"Exactly as you're imagining it. Repetition will make it work. Feel for the bind, do it now," he demands, and gets up to turn on the bathroom light and leave the door half open, allowing only minimal light in the room as the sunset disappears from the window.

Cas doesn't intend to help at all.

Sam puts a hand to Chuck's chest. "Sweetheart, breathe with me?"

He grasps for Sam's hand and he does try to breathe. That's at least one habit they _have_ built up. But it doesn't help enough.

Okay.

Sam closes his eyes and he sees himself in their motel room only it's connected like broken pieces to a hall. The colors and wallpaper mismatched but the bricks and cinderblocks somehow jammed together.

He pushes forward. Imagines himself walking down the hall like the first time Cas guided him. He looks for the extra-small huddle of Chuck on the floor.

But he's at a locker, along the wall. And books are pouring out of it. He stacks two back up and eight fall out.

He's getting frantic with the need to pack it all in. So Sam finds himself scooping up piles and holding them in with his knees until Chuck is passing him more and he can quick-slam it closed and fall against it.

Chuck throws himself around Sam's neck, here, in the real world, and gasps like he just remembered how oxygen works. And his breathing slows. And he calms.

Sam pets down his back and looks over at Cas.

He knows Cas can read it on him:  
He cannot fucking believe that worked.

He feels like a damned moron. It must have been that easy the whole time. But he couldn't envision the hall accurately, so he didn't even try. Maybe if he weren't such a stickler for details he would have found his way down it months ago.

"I'm not okay," Chuck says. "I'm not okay. Something in me knows Cas is right and I don't wanna think about it. It would rather drown me than let me understand. I don't wanna know even if I want to. I'm not okay. I don't know what to do. What did I do? What did he do inside me? Why did he leave me like this? Did he put my truck into that tree? Did he leave me in pain like this??" Chuck's crying hot against Sam's neck. "Did he leave me here to die? To fucking drink myself to death or crack the wall and fry myself? What if I agreed to it? What if I _didn't agree??_ "

Cas is finally close. He looks kinda heartbroken. Talks over Chuck's unstoppable rain of questions: "Do you want me to put him out?"

NO. No. He shakes his head and holds Chuck tight. Cas backs off.

"Why would I have- oh fuck. Oh fuck. What if I remember? What if that was part of the apocalypse? He just dropped down to see how well we were all _slaughtering_ each other and dipped right back out. He left you. He didn't care. He's cruel. Am I cruel? Is that why I left my family? Am I gonna hurt you?"

"Chuck, stop, stop stop stop, please. Sweetheart. I'm gonna come see you again."

"You shouldn't! You shouldn't let me near you! What if I worm my way in and fuck with your head and leave all this light inside you? What if I hurt your head?? He's already hurt you so bad, Sam, I don't want to hurt you," he cries harder and at this point Sam isn't gonna be able to hold it together, either, if he can't reel him back in.

Cas comes back close and this time he takes Chuck's wrist, then grabs for Sam's.

Like when he bridged them.

Sam takes a deep breath and nods.

This way he finds himself directly in the hallway, doesn't have to navigate on his own.

(And this time he knows it's cheating and it's half-assed and he doesn't want to have to use it again. He'll practice - _they_ will practice. No more bridging.)

It doesn't feel like spirits, it doesn't feel like ghosts. But there's simply no way for him to touch Chuck. He can't even try. He can't see his own form so he has no idea what he looks like, or if he's just a _presence_ like Cas is beside them.

Chuck is on the floor and backpacks are spilled open. Twenty, maybe thirty bags of stuff, zippers broken and spilled down the hall. Pens rolling and papers flying off. Ripping themselves from notebooks and stains appearing on them as if they fell into puddles. Words are on them and they soak and smear and disappear. The ink changes to red-marked, slashed through with bad grades and slurs and jagged drawings of sigils and monsters. Tire tracks cross some of them. Bloody hand prints.

So he kicks. Kicks at the papers and books and broken bags and they scatter. Kicks until things move away from Chuck and he's not surrounded anymore.

Still, Sam can't reach for him. It ought to be enough that he feels his arms holding him in the motel room, but it's not. He wants to be here for him in every sense.

Sam's fallen through this hole a thousand times before. The why-was-I-made-for-this tunnel. The dry well of self-hatred. The long fall of horror ending in a cage.

Chuck's borrowed so much knowledge from him. He needs to be able to find it.

He will. He'll help him. Sam's been here before and he'll have to play sponsor again. He'll have to guide Chuck through life-after. He's still alive after the booze. He'll stay alive after this. Because Sam needs him.

He can't think about it quietly. All their decisions have to be made together, now. Chuck can't be kept out anymore. Sam asks aloud, "Do you want Cas to put you out for a while? So you can calm down?"

A _shock_ of discomfort through the bind.

That's a _no_.

Sam knows his misstep at once. It was like a threat to leave Chuck with Cas. Leave him with without Sam to help. He wants _Sam's_ inept, half-formed, completely amateur assistance in navigating this beast instead of Cas's calm understanding and guidance.

Chuck will always choose Sam.

Sam shakes his wrist free. Hugs Chuck tight. "Okay. Okay."

Cas steps back from them.

"Then you can do this. Then you can come back and breathe with me, right? Like we normally do. You can do this. And we can press the doors closed and come back to it piece by piece when you're ready. We don't have to deal with all of this at once."

Chuck shuts his mouth up tight but opens his eyes and nods. He takes big breaths through his nose and it takes longer than if he would unlock his jaw, but Sam understands. He wants to stop crying, not allow the sobs to come. He wants to calm down.

Sam puts both hands on Chuck's head and fucking seriously focuses.

Restarts.

Restarts in the image of their motel room. He comes through the hall.

He can tell when Chuck tunes in to his presence.

And they press on doors. For who-knows-how-long.

This time, they hit the doors on the other side, too. The ones with fissures at the edges and splitting blocks of the wall in two. They press those doors, anyway. And breathe and press and breathe and press.

Cas is sat on the bed when they open their eyes. He's frozen and sitting very straight.

When Chuck opens his eyes, too, Cas nods.

"Dean texted. They'll be back in a half hour. Do you want me to stay in your room with you tonight?"

"No thanks, creep-o," Chuck sighs, utterly run down.

"My phone will be on," he nods. "You two need an incredible amount of practice, still."

"Thanks for the fucking encouragement," Sam gripes.

«»

Chuck attacks him when they get back to the room.

Sam has to detach himself with actual effort. "We are seriously _not_ covering up our problems with sex."

"Okay," Chuck blinks and nearly falls on his ass.

Sam catches him and hauls him upright, practically drags him to the bed. "Alright. Okay. What just happened? Are you dizzy?" Sam knows he's already worn out for the day but he wants Chuck to tell him so himself.

"I'm trying to cope with having had a deity in my brain, I'm fucking confused and scared out of my mind." He lifts two fingers, close together, squints through them. "I might be a smidge dizzy. Can you turn off these fucking lights??"

He pushes Chuck up the bed and leaves him there. Slaps off the lightswitch and goes to turn the bathroom light on and shut the door so there's only enough to navigate the room by.

He joins Chuck on the bed. Tosses himself down on the pillows and just collapses there in a similar fashion.

"I can't believe how fucked up this is."

Sam agrees but he's still trying not to turn over and press him down with kisses. Saying no to sex is just so so so very not in his nature.

"I don't want you to go screaming from the room."

"Why would I?"

"I don't know. I've got a nuke in my head."

"You don't have a nuke in your head. We're gonna work on it."

"You sound really fed up with me right now," Chuck says quieter and Sam understands that more than just the God stuff is scaring him.

He shakes his head and moves to lay on his side and drag Chuck into the middle of the bed. He touches his hips his belly, his chest his arms, his neck his head. Kneels up to sweep hands down his legs and back up to his ass and then lie down again and curl them together. "You're all there. All your parts. You're present and, even if you're scared and you feel a little fucked up, you're still alive and you're thinking and I'm married to you and you're completely stuck with me." He takes a deep breath and puts his hand to Chuck's back until he does the same. "I'm freaked out and I'm dealing with it a little quietly because your freakout is a lot more central to the issue at the moment. I'll deal with my head, but I think you've been doing a fantastic job of dealing with my head and it's time for me to expand my horizons. I'm gonna get real nosy and be all up in your business and feeding the roots of our bind so it's never starving for me and it's never starving for you and it will always be healthy enough to keep us connected. I have a job to do here. I'm not sure how to do it. But here I come. So. Warn your brain. Warn your brain that I'm coming for whatever makes it think it's allowed to fuck with you. Sam Fuckin' Winchester has his killing boots on."

"Can I just get this straight for a second?" Chuck pauses. "I'm _not_ supposed to blow you right now? When you say these things and they sound so good I wanna crawl all over you?"

"Stop it."

"I'm gonna point something out that's starting to make me feel weird."

"'Kay?"

"If I really was the vessel of That Giant Asshole and we know you were the vessel of That Complete Dick, how worried should we be that we were meant to be? Because I find that flat-out disgusting."

"I'm comforted by the fact that they would find it disgusting, too, if they were paying attention. It would be the exact opposite of what they want. So fuck them. We do things our way." He leaves Chuck's clothes on so he doesn't send any mixed messages, and pulls the covers up over them. "Cas said that you probably asked to stay. The implication was that God knew he fried your brain but you asked to stay on earth because you were so hot for me."

Chuck shivers. "I probably did. Sounds like my only brand of bravery: motivated by my thirst for your ass."

"I am never gonna get over hearing you talk, but I think you're already tired," he pets Chuck's head. "I really want you to sleep."

"No you don't. We were supposed to tell each other stories on the way home."

Sam didn't forget about that. "We can't, yet, sweetheart. I want to. But we have to stick by Cas. Just in case."

"I know. But we can still do a story," he pleads a little.

"You're tired."

"You're lonely, guess which one is more important to me," he challenges. "How long did I just sleep, Sam?"

Fifty three hours and forty two minutes. "Like two days. But you were working."

"Sam. Turn over, you're about to get yourself little-spooned."

He grumbles because he definitely wants to watch Chuck's open eyes until he falls asleep, but. Well. He also wants to be held. He doesn't even know what he'll get out of it until he's facing the other way and Chuck's limbs tuck around him and he scoots up to hold Sam's head under his chin.

That's when he feels the last of 50 hours worth of anger fizzle away. With Chuck wrapped around his upper body, heel of his foot resting against Sam's thigh.

He hears Chuck's heart. So he intentionally does what he's been wanting to but didn't know he was able: he closes his eyes, pushes away from his little mental motel room and shoves his sheer adoration at Chuck. Shoves this feeling into his hallway like it were a parade balloon, like it should be too big to fit. It's a while of re-envisioning the hall and collecting the feeling all into one. After a while, Chuck seems to see it resolve before him. He moans and holds on tighter.

"Oh god, Sam. Oh Sammy."

"I'm not okay with saying that dirtbag's name anymore." God is no longer invited into their life. What the fuck has he done but jerk them around, anyway?

"Okay. Okay, I'll work on it. But Sam. You're so. You love me. How is this fucking real? That we got all the way here?" He kisses Sam's head and takes a deep breath. "Remember how you wrote about what it would be like if we were in high school together?"

"You wrote it for me."

" _We_ wrote it. Well, how about this? You became a lawyer. And you were so good you got recruited by a big firm in L.A. And now you're a big shot there and I actually made something of myself. I stayed there more than a few months and I actually turned _Supernatural_ into a movie or a tv script or something. And." He considers for a moment. "I donno. I speak out against the studio or something. Or I put something in the script and wouldn't change it. I think it's my right. And you're a first-amendment lawyer."

Sam tugs Chuck's hands around himself. "Holy shit. You tried to change the stupid story you were telling so fewer people have to suffer and die. And when the studio won't let you, they hire somebody else to do it and they break your story. So you want it back."

"Well, if I just got fired, I guess I can't afford you," he sounds chagrinned.

"But you go shopping for lawyers and I meet with you. And I love your show and even though you can't afford me, we work out a deal. Because I wanna protect your words."

"My rights, you mean?"

"Your rights. Your words. You. And the firm I work for won't back me up. They have a deal with the studio so they can't allow me to work against them. So I quit."

"Which totally makes you my hero. And here we go, working late nights on my case and I grow this crush on you. But you gotta do your job. Now that you quit, you have to win to make a name for yourself and get hired someplace else."

"Okay," he nods, agreeing. "But we lose."

"What? Why? I wanted us to be the underdogs, Sam."

"The underdogs don't always win. And that's what happens. I failed you and we both get run out of town."

Chuck lets go and untangles himself and crawls over to get in front of him. He puts a hand to Sam's neck. "Why do you think we lose?"

"Because I'm not very good at fucking protecting you. I don't listen to you. If I had listened to you, maybe I could have protected you as well as you've protected me." He says it because it's just the truth.

"What are you saying that for, Sam? You always listen to me. You do it better than anyone."

"I didn't pay attention when you wanted to work on the bind. You said we were gonna write and teach more and instead we just kept hunting. Even Cas yelled at Dean because he was supposed to back off hunting. But all you did was ask and I said 'yeah' and turned around and did it anyway. I wasn't listening. You wouldn't even have been in that situation. And maybe if the bind were stronger, you wouldn't have slipped off. I would have been able to keep you alive with me until Cas got there to fix you."

Chuck squints at him and frowns. "Sam. This is why you leave the writing to me: protect the good guys at all costs, even against their fool selves. We are the underdogs and we win the case. Individual rights over the rights of the studio under our contract. It would be close but you would win it for me. And after it-"

"I confess that it was so hard to work with you because I'm so in love with your words and so crazy about you. And I win and I get hired by somebody else. And so do you. And you tell our story in a fucking rom com that makes beaucoup bucks. And I retire from law a well-kept man. Because I listen when you tell me to stop."

Chuck frowns more and pets at him. "So, look," he whispers. "The main benefit I'll reap from you sitting out on the hunting? Is that you'll stop claiming all the responsibility when things go wrong. I am so, so super tired of watching you beat yourself up. I love you so much. I feel worse that you feel like you have to take the credit for the actions of some random demon. It doesn't make me feel better. I only feel better when you're safe and free and you recognize that you're not actually a destructive force in the world. Sam, you're my husband. My husband is doing his best."

Sam hurts. His insides hurt. His heart is carrying a fresh ache from trying to get ready for Chuck to be in pain, or scared, or drastically different when he woke up. Or ready for him not to wake up at all. He was busy being prepared for the worst. He's not ready to let his mistakes go as easily as Chuck may dismiss them.

He just shakes his head and scoots to tuck them in again. "Go to sleep, sweetheart."

"And what? Watch you wake up miserable, still, tomorrow?" Chuck shakes his head, too. "No. This is the kind of thing we stay awake and work on. You just said, yourself, that you feel like you should have listened to me. What kind of bullshit double-standard are you gonna try to justify after you guilt me into going to sleep instead of letting me do my job and _listening to me_ while I do?"

Sam bites his lip. Tries one more time. "You don't need to be yelling at me, you need your rest."

"Okay. Be reductive, instead. As if I were mindlessly nagging instead of trying to talk it out."

Sam sighs. And sits up. And helps Chuck up, too. And they sit beside each other.

He crosses his arms and realizes what that looks like and uncrosses them. Chuck insists on working when he just came back to life. He insists on working on _them_ because he loves _them together_. He would rather exhaust himself than let Sam think this way.

"Do you know how unprepared I was for you?" he asks out loud when he didn't particularly mean to.

"The easy answer is 'yes,'" Chuck sighs. "I enjoy that part, actually. Enhancing my wily allure by dousing you with more love and understanding than you can reasonably be expected to handle." He turns to look dead-on at Sam. Waits for his eyes. "It's how I get myself laid," he grins and Sam busts out laughing just like Chuck doubtless intended.

Sam eases back after a while. "How could I _not_ lay somebody who makes me so stupid-happy?"

"Why do I make you happy?" Chuck asks with genuine curiosity.

He snorts. "You're here. You're just here. Every time I texted you were there. Every time I called you were there. Every time I showed up," he tosses a hand. "Every time I look for you, you're there. You make my head make sense to me. You let me touch you. You sleep beside me and when I wake up? There you are."

There he is. It strikes him that Chuck hasn't asked for the same. 6 a.m. is what he asked for and not a minute later. A lot of the time, when Chuck wakes up, Sam isn't there. He isn't giving Chuck the same thing he's getting. He's not always there for Chuck.

The hunting is in the way.

He blinks over at Chuck. "Wow. I'm sorry."

Chuck shakes his head. "Stop apologizing. Whatever you think you're doing wrong, it's probably fine."

"It's not. I'm never lonely anymore. I haven't been making sure the same goes for you."

"Sam-"

"Everything! Okay? Everything about you makes me happy just because you insist on sticking around. You insist on talking. You insist on working everything out. It's the total package. I'm attracted to you and you cling to me come hell or high water. It's like. It's like. It's like I--"

"Got married or something crazy like that?"

"Don't make me say that ridiculous word," he shakes his head. "By now I'm pretty damn sure we did more than just get ourselves hitched and you fucking well know it."

Chuck contemplates for a moment. "Are you referring to the word that starts with 's' and ends with 'oulmates'?" he teases, extra dry. "You think we _made ourselves_ into... that?"

"Cas basically confirmed it. I suspected. But he said it was fucking outrageous that we should need so much help communicating through the bind."

Chuck cringes but shakes his head. "No. I mean. We've both had our heads fucked with. We're just reluctant. We just-- it was good enough at the time."

Sam busts out a withering laugh. "Oh hell no. Not nearly enough. I didn't get to see the hallway until after Cas did." He doesn't mean for it to end in such an angry sneer.

Chuck blinks at him. Blinks away. Turns to him again. "You look like when you met Josh. You look _jealous_."

Sam drops his head. Then? Fuck it. He tosses the covers away and crawls over _his husband_. His very best friend. His one-and-only.

"Yes," he confirms, pretty much daring Chuck to tell him it's not a big deal. Because, "It was a big deal. I was jealous then and I'm jealous now. I did something stupid: I didn't listen to you so I lost out. Jealousy is the price I pay. I have to be jealous. I have to admit I missed an opportunity. I have to tell you that you were right. I have to shape up and listen to you better than everybody else. And? I have to make it up to you."

"I don't agree with this sounding like punishment."

"Noted. But they're my mistakes and I have to fix them. And no matter how poorly or well I do, you'll say-"

"Good job, Sam," he pets Sam's face. "So proud of you, Sam."

"Yes," his eyes close and he leans in and Chuck draws him down close. "Because you think too well of me."

"And then you'll get me naked and do anything to make it up to me. Because you think too well of _me_."

"Maybe if we both do, the truth is just that we're amazing together."

"Okay. I'll agree to be awesome if you agree to be awesome."

Sam indulges in Chuck's slow, sure touches through his hair and to the back of his head. "I reserve the right to be worried and spoil you until Cas says you're not in danger of glowing to death anymore."

Chuck kisses him and he opens his eyes to him nodding. "I scared you too much. I get that. It's fine. I mean, spoil me anytime but I can get why you're worried. I am, too."

"Tell me you still love me, even when I don't get it right the first time."

"I love you all the time. Sam, I love you. I'm sleepy and hungry at the same time. I have no idea what to do. I want you to lay down on me and touch me everywhere. I wanna go home. I want to be able to ignore some things but my head is kind of getting crowded. I need you to help me," he slumps.

"Okay. I can do that. One thing at a time." He sits up and mimics Chuck's hold on his head. Closes his eyes. "Deep breath with me when you're ready."

«»

Ignoring all his new languages doesn't help.

It's almost like a drain clogs in his head and Sam will check on him and he'll be ankle-deep in ideas he can't handle, stuttering and mixing things into his English.

Sam can go in and help him push things aside.

They are very quiet in their heads. They can't talk there, they have to talk out loud.

Sam's miffed. He's being impatient. He wants long-distance communication and he wants it now. Though they're not even to the point of visualizing the bind - the link between the motel room and the hallway - without holding one another close.

He has to cultivate patience because rushing would hurt Chuck just as much as doing nothing. There has to be a steady middle-ground.

The next day, it's the third time he pushes his way into the hall to help Chuck straighten himself out. It isn't even noon.

Chuck leans back and shudders and thanks him. Then he starts crying a little. Upsetting little hiccups he tries to clamp under his hand.

"It's overwhelming. But you're gonna be okay," Sam hugs him and promises in a whisper. "I'm here. You're gonna share with me so you don't feel that way. I know you don't want to," he hauls him closer and rocks him a little, "but you wrote on all those pages and you talked to Cas a little and you were better for a while. Maybe you need to start writing in another language so your mind has an outlet? Maybe write articles in Spanish and you can sell them to websites under a new name?"

"Who will proof them for me? What if I lose my English? What if I'm talking to you one day and you just stare because you have no idea what I'm talking about?"

"Okay, shh. Take a few breaths with me? Cas can proof your articles. You're not gonna lose your English. And if you ever aren't making sense to me, I'll tell you. I'll learn to speak another one with you. I think we have to let some of your new languages out, though. To relieve the pressure. Can I tell you something? And you'll just take it as my dorky enthusiasm and not a criticism?"

Chuck tries to pull himself together. Wipes hastily at his eyes and sniffs. "Okay?"

"I'm really excited that you're suddenly so talented."

Chuck surprises himself with a laugh. "I'm not talented I'm drowning."

"I won't let you drown. Can we please work on this? Maybe you can practice Latin with Claire?"

"I don't know how it works! It just _comes out!_ " he panics all at once.

"Okay! Alright. Maybe not right now. Maybe you should just talk to Cas."

He shrugs. Wavers. "Maybe I'll write articles," he agrees.

Sam wipes off his face and kisses him, then brings him over to the table. He starts by rewriting something he wrote a while ago and, after Cas checks it, he writes something new. Cas checks that one, too, and nothing is wrong with it except that he switched to Portuguese in the middle somewhere.

Cas hangs out for a bit like he's keeping watch over them. Then Claire comes over, too, only she's more ants-in-the-pants restless.

"Let's go for a walk. Let's walk to the gas station and get coffee!" she blurts.

Chuck gives a dubious look. "It's bright outside."

She catapults out of the room.

"She has a baseball hat for undercover purposes," Cas explains.

So they shrug and get their shoes on.

Sam hangs back as they walk, keeping Claire and Chuck in sight but not close enough to hear.

Cas keeps doing that thing where he starts speaking and hesitates. Shuts up again and acts like it's not worth it anyway.

"What's up?" Sam finally elbows him.

Castiel sighs some. "The things Chuck wondered about himself - about God's use of him - when he panicked yesterday. I feel responsible for some of that."

Sam bites at his bottom lip. He understood where the flurry of doubts and fears came from. Chuck doesn't trust himself under the best conditions and if Cas is to blame for the degree of his reaction, so is Sam.

"It was like. Like after you both returned from meeting Joshua. Only Chuck's been under no delusions as to how God acts and yet He still managed to take Chuck by surprise with a new brutality. _I felt that way_. I fear that my concerns for you both, as I worked on the wall, may have fallen into his consciousness."

"Nah. I mean. Maybe? But. He knows - he remembers, vividly - the identity crises I've been through since... you know. My whole life. And if he borrowed that from anybody? I mean, come on, I've asked myself those same questions, Cas. 'Am I the way I am to my family because of the way Lucifer was to his family?' And now Chuck's just pasting that onto himself. He doesn't want to be like the Father who abandoned you and put us through the wringer. He worried that those things were true about him."

"But he'll remember that they weren't true for you, so they won't be true for him," Cas fills in.

"I think so. I _believe_ so. He's told me, time and again, that I'm me. Not the things that heaven or hell wanted me to be. I am _me_. Not God's version of me. Not Lucifer's version of me. Not even Dean's version of me. I am exactly who I decide to be. And that's true for him, too. I feel." He stops, swallows, looks at the world around them. "I feel this lead ball of disgust in my gut. Because. Because I don't think He needed permission. Because I think God used the person I love and feel most protective over. I think He did exactly what we don't wanna talk about. Lounged around inside Chuck and quietly turned the cogs of the apocalypse just because he could. And for Chuck to be scarred up this way?"

"It hurts," Cas says. "I understand. And I think there's no one better to keep him from being choked by the idea. It's just that I feel responsible one way or another. It's my family that did this to you both. It wasn't enough for my Father to punish us - it goes further than I expected. I wasn't prepared for the intensity of what was inside Chuck's head. Or the wall. And. Upon seeing it I felt only disgust for exactly what it means to 'play God' - to be God. And feel that you're above the notion of caring whether or not others get hurt." He puts his hand to the back of Sam's arm as they keep strolling. "You mean a lot to me, Sam. And it means a lot that you gave me another friend in your husband. I don't do a very remarkable job of finding friends on my own," he says, wry, and puts his hands in his pockets.

"It's crap that you should have to try so hard, Cas. We know how great you are. I wish more people knew."

Cas raises a finger like he's trying to settle on the right word. Finally he lands on: "Um. Ditto."

Sam smirks.

He ends up snagging bottled coffees from the fridge, for later, while Chuck gets the real stuff doctored up by the machines. Claire runs a commentary at Chuck while she gets her abominable combination Slurpee. Then Sam helps Cas choose a coffee to bring back to Dean. Claire starts gathering candy bars and suddenly she and Chuck are grabbing too many bags of snacks to carry. They chatter and line up to check out and Cas steps up to pay for everything between all four of them.

There's a spike of panic. And Sam knows it's not from himself. It slams down like a nail driven between the bind.

But Chuck smiles and laughs at something Claire says and doesn't let it show.

Their stuff is easier to carry in bags, so Sam lets Cas and Claire take everything off their hands and hangs back before they cross to the motel again.

He tugs at Chuck's hoodie and he nods and stops. "Sorry about that."

"No. You don't apologize for that kind of thing. You just tell me what it's about."

"The. The-" he shrugs, makes himself smaller. "I remember walking around and not feeling like myself sometimes. And. I bought. I bought this bottle of scotch once that I couldn't even dream to afford, but I went up to a cashier and I went home with it. I remember that. And I don't know. I kept it a few weeks. And then the world was supposed to end and the- then-" he stutters to a halt, remembering something that speeds his breath. "I'm sorry. We're outside. I should wait to even tell you when-"

"This doesn't happen only in the right company, Chuck, this is actively happening to you twenty-four/seven. This is happening to your entire life right now and it's not your job to make it easier for muggles to swallow. It's your job to??" he prompts.

"Feel it out in my head? And if I can't handle it. I tell you?"

"Yes," Sam takes his hand up and they start walking. Cas and Claire waited for them under the far awning. They start walking, again, two and two. "We'll get you back and concentrate again-"

"I'm sorry this is happening so fucking often. I'm sorry," his voice wobbles.

"Don't be sorry. There's nothing to be sorry for. You just take care of yourself and let me help and it will get better, sooner. If anyone should be apologizing, it's me. I'm the one who wanted you awake. Maybe if Cas had you sleep longer, we could have healed more without you. But I needed you out here with me. I wouldn't have done much bridging to you. I think I've already had enough of that shit. It works but I can already tell the difference between when you can really feel me and when I'm faking the funk. I need to be practicing and working on the bind. Don't be impatient with yourself - I'm the one who has to catch up to you. Just tell me when it's too much to take," he lets go of Chuck's hand to walk with his arm around him.

"I kind of wish there were just a doctor for this kind of thing. You know. To tell me how much longer I have to live."

Sam takes a deep breath and takes Chuck's coffee from him to steal a sip. "You don't have an expiration date. You should have seen me fretting over you like an idiot with Cas just sitting there shrugging. I asked him if there were any way to fix you and he just blew it off because it was no big deal," he hands the drink back. "He said you had broken words in your head. I asked him if it was brain damage because we didn't fix you in time. He said it was because you didn't understand how many new languages had just spilled into your hallway. And here you are stacking them up into usable little piles and accessing them to write articles. I didn't get that. I didn't understand he was telling me that there's so much you can endure. You're so strong. Sweetheart, it might take you time to straighten your head out, but-"

"I never did," he insists. "That's what's bugging me. I still see all these pieces of past and future and things I wasn't even there for and now I'm seeing my own life through a completely different lens. Like, I was seeing through angels in the past and you two in the future and now I learn I probably wasn't even seeing through my own eyes in the present? I was probably carrying around this prick who was just using me to kick back and tell a dumb story about _hurting you_ and abandoning you in a _hole_ -" his voice goes high enough that Claire and Cas turn and pause in the parking lot and Sam has to stop, too.

Stop and turn Chuck and take his coffee from him again and hug his head with one arm.

Until Chuck hugs him back.

This took all of _himself_ away from Chuck. He feels like he doesn't own his own mind or, at this point, even his own experiences. So he's worried he doesn't know who he is -- Sam can translate this through his very own experience.

Chuck's hands knot in his jacket and he sighs.

"I know who you are. When you let go of the booze, you crawled out of the hole that history and destiny and god and the angels put you in and ever since you've been somebody I fell in love with. I know who you are now. I've been experiencing Chuck and I like him." He lets go and Chuck slumps back some. "I love you, Sweetheart. I know exactly who you are. Disconnected from your writing or your - whatever. 'God-given purpose.' Away from that, when you're sleeping and watching tv and sharing meals with our family and driving cross-country and telling stories. You're Chuck Winchester and I know who you are. And if you ever don't like who you are, we can establish something else. You and me. We're both sharing the load. For the rest of forever."

He lets Chuck wrap his hands around his giant coffee again. Leans down to look at him close.

"On some level I know what you're going through. And you're gonna be okay. So I'm kind of like a doctor of hunting and I'm telling you that you're not gonna die," he smiles. "I've got just the thing to treat you and you're gonna be fine."

Chuck smiles a little.

Hesitates.

"'I've got just the thing to treat you' is totally a line out of a nurse-kink porn or something."

He huffs and closes his eyes and conks his head against Chuck's. "I'm almost literally supposed to love you back to health and well-being. We are cheesier than any line in any porn ever."

"Point," Chuck agrees, palms Sam's face and kisses his head. He lets Sam fix his ball cap and takes his hand up again. "So I don't get lost walking back," he indicates, swinging them once.

"We should definitely double and triple our precautions," Sam agrees solemnly, squeezes his fingers tight.

«»

Josie and Krissy left. Sam doesn't know when it happened. Honestly, he hasn't noticed much and he can't seek forgiveness for it.

Krissy made it happen after almost having it out with Dean. She stomped off mid-argument and Josie eventually came back around to tell Charlie that they'd be getting a place for themselves until everyone started moving again.

They have been in minimal contact since.

He isn't trying to trick them into coming back, Dean's just restless and wants to move motels, so they do.

Sam does so gladly. Between real life and the bind he's sick of these same walls in this same room. The lingering feeling of approaching death, from the tense time dealing with Chuck's coma, has him packing their shit fast and handing Chuck up into the truck within a half hour of Dean mentioning it.

They go a little ways northwest. Only do a few hours of driving before stopping. Dean is checking with him, trying to stay aware of Chuck's limitations right now. He doesn't really go so many hours without needing to scribble something out or talk to Cas.

It's frustrating. More for Chuck than anyone else. All these alien languages make him feel foreign inside his own skin and Sam can only fucking imagine that any of the horrific bodyswaps he's gone through pale in comparison to the constant onslaught.

It's not an outside entity doing this to Chuck. His own head is bombarding him.

He gets worn out. He needs sleep. He wakes up. He starts drowning.

For once, Sam recognizes that being impatient with himself is equivalent to incubating a virus inside of both of them. If he's gonna start being impatient with his own inability to meet Chuck through the bind, Chuck is going to worry about him beating himself up.

Nothing will get done.

So. Positive thoughts?  
Yeah. Positive thoughts must prevail.

They can't be platitudes. He can't just say he believes in them.

He has to actively concentrate on them _working it out_.

The constant cycle means that, after only two stops closer to home, over two days, Sam has to halt them on the third.

Maybe they should get back to the bunker, yes. Chuck does need stability. But he's gotta be good for more than three hours at a time if they're going to drive all the way back without Cas dropping him into another coma.

He keeps checking with Chuck, keeps thinking about making the offer, but another coma is _so_ not happening. Sam simply does not have the willpower to keep Chuck asleep without him. As much as Chuck can't keep it together, Sam doesn't want to be the patient one for that again - stillness and silence and a room of people fretting over the both of them while Chuck just dreams.

Sam can be patient with them together. Not apart. Not anymore.

They get their motel room on the opposite end of the building from the rest of the family, this time.

Yes, Sam needs Cas in range. But. He can keep his phone charged.

What they need more is for Chuck to have the door closed. He doesn't need people floating in at all hours, at random intervals because they're bored or restless. He needs quiet.

Sam sometimes forgets how _much_ he needs quiet.

Three hours of a calm mind suddenly becomes _five_.

Chuck is still frustrated when it starts surging in his head, but Sam is so-so-so happy this actually worked that he has a better handle on the bind this time and pushing forward, calming things down, is more of a pleasure than the _task_ that he's been making it.

And that's the missing piece, isn't it? To acknowledge that it's _his pleasure_ to be invited in. To come home and sort everything out with his husband.

Chuck gives him a strange look, after.

And suddenly there's an added benefit to not having family around: no one complains about the noise they make, rattling the squeaky old bedframe.

Rattling each other.

Family rules are that the doors have to stay open. They've got shit to do and too little time to be polite.

But this isn't a hunt. (They're _not hunting anymore_ , matter of fact.) And Sam's rule is that Chuck needs quiet. As long as that's established and no one whines about it, they can move along home, soon.

It takes a couple days for the quiet to settle into Chuck and make him feel easy. A shaky-shifty seventh hour is good enough for Sam. If they don't push it, if they read a few international news articles together, watch a show with subtitles, practice some words, it helps make the mental mess manageable.

Sam likes the shape of this motel room, better, and the quiet that it keeps, but he can't seem to reformat the shape of the place where he starts off in the bind. It just becomes a muddy mix of many motels. An amalgam of "motels" instead of just one room. Like his mind palace was meant to be a dump the same way Chuck's was meant to be faceless and occasionally crowded, just like in a school. Just like in any old school.

It occurs to him that they aren't really that good at this. A thought that he keeps private and then buries to forget. Because he can't let poison cross the bind over to Chuck. They make it to six hours when Sam decides that he can be fine with it. Makes the room more faceless. Makes the connection between the motel and the school hall into a haze where no one bothered to install lights instead of a jagged crash where the two of them were jammed together.

He doesn't want them to be jammed together. They chose this. They want to be beautiful and quiet and happy with each other.

Sam also doesn't think all the healing should have to take place in these mental buildings. It should happen face-to-face as well. It should happen every day as they live and breathe. When Chuck gets frustrated with himself, Sam shouldn't have to close his eyes like he's picking up a broom to go sweep up Chuck's mess.

He decides that, first, he can draw Chuck close. They can breathe. And Chuck can _say_ what he's dealing with. He can speak his concerns.

"And you can slow down and say each one of them. I'm not gonna look at you like some abomination if you say it in a language I don't understand," he pets Chuck's face, down his neck and does it easy, repeatedly. He doesn't flinch when both of Sam's hands stop at his neck and massage there. Sam breathes against his head, kissing his skin for a while. "Maybe we have to rewind like we're starting a piece of this all over again. Not the whole thing but. Like. Where we decide we can trust each other."

Chuck feels hesitant under Sam's hands.

"What?"

"I just don't-- I never really had to decide to trust you. I don't think you did, either. We just do."

Well. The Becky Thing. That was the first fuck-up that really blew up in his face. Sam knows he's not worth trusting and that Chuck does it, anyway.

But Chuck doesn't extend that deep, automatic trust to everybody. He's only really given it to Sam. Look at him here, now. With Sam's hands around his neck. He still has a problem with that, on occasion. Fear creeping up and his body ready to tense and struggle. Remembering the feeling of hands wrapped around, cutting his air off. And a hundred other things that choked the life out of people in the memories he has jammed in his skull.

Here he sits, though. Trusting Sam - always trusting Sam to touch him. Even trusting him in this way.

And Sam didn't really have to decide to trust him. He did. He just did. He wanted to and it didn't bite him back, for once.

"So we already do. Trust each other," Sam says.

Chuck takes a breath. "Okay. I'm scared that this stuff weighs so much- I'm worried it's heavier than the puny human things I was made up of in the first place. I'm worried the new stuff is gonna wash me out. It's already... crowding the joint up. I don't. I'm not sure I feel like... my own language is established enough, anymore, to make more sense than it. I'm constantly at the doors, just, working working working," he presses his hands against Sam's chest like he were a door. "I'm worried that Cas pushed the heavier new memories aside and I put them in a room and if a door opens, you won't be able to save me as fast."

Seventeen minutes. That's the length of the blankness the last time it happened. That was all. As opposed to hours. Maybe days.

Chuck doesn't know that the bind is reestablished enough to save him from that.

But Sam does. It doesn't feel off-kilter anymore. He knows how to move through it. He knows it isn't messed up because Cas closed the gaps and, as reluctant as he was to do it, Sam can now move into it easily. Sam kisses his head again. "You don't wanna disappear on me."

Chuck nods a little.

Part of this is that Chuck has to believe it feels right, too. He has to let Sam do his job and help him. "So you're working on the doors all day and you don't have time to deal with the language. The language can't go behind doors?"

"No. It's everywhere. It's in the fucking walls. It's in the floors. It's in the air, I'm breathing it."

"If that's true then your English isn't gonna disappear. It's just enhanced now. So stop worrying about that."

Chuck snorts. Easier said than done, yeah.

"Let me help you with the doors?"

Chuck closes his eyes. It's a hesitation. A reluctance. He isn't sure that Sam pressing on the doors works as well as him.

Okay. Fine. Exercising. Constant, coddling love. Closeness and cheesiness. He will love Chuck back to health and wellness and stability.

"You have to be better about telling me when you need me," he insists.

Chuck hesitates again.

Fine. Yeah, okay. Then he can't be out of range. He has to be at arm's length until he can recognize the signs without touching him. Until then.

Yep. Suffocating love. No way around it.

Sam hugs him. He's kind of hugging him in his mind, too, across the hall and folding down over him as best as he can envision it.

"Ugh. You fucking fruit. You are the fruitiest fucking fruit. We need to schedule dentist appointments for everyone we know, we're gonna rot their teeth out merely by being in the same _room_ ," Chuck laments. "Cheeseball cheeseball cheeseball."

Yep.

«»

They give it a few days and Sam feels like they can travel the next six hours. They make it five and plan to get back to the bunker on the next stretch.

Sam wants to go home.

He's been aching for it for days. Having Chuck back means he doesn't get homesick; he has the essentials that he needs. What he _wants_ , however, is a place to nest Chuck down and keep him cool and calm and comfortable. Their apartment is well-warded, soundproof, has weapons, and is ready for defense.

But he knows they can't go back. He has no idea when they'll be able to.

Staying too far from Cas would be a mistake. Castiel hasn't been inside Chuck's brain working since he woke him up, and Sam refuses to use him as a bridge anymore. But. If Chuck should get stuck on a runaway train of doubt or fear, he may need angelic intervention.

It means that "home," for now, is the bunker.

It bums him out. The more they work on their bind, the harder it is to keep his negative thoughts private.

In response to Sam's efforts, dogging Chuck into believing in them, into _trusting_ them, Chuck tells him not to hold those things back.  
Chuck tells him to share his burdens.

Sam's a moron, so he doesn't. And he doesn't and he doesn't.

Until Chuck, his tiny savior, his best friend, his surprisingly strong husband, his hermit crab, his _delicate, revered, impossible vessel of The Divine_ pulls a worry straight out of his head without him knowing and... simply fixes it.

"You're breaking the rules," he says when he wakes up. Because it betrays his distress less than, _did you sleep? were you able to sleep? why are you up? are you feeling okay? please don't leave me alone in bed. please tell me you're not hurting._

"I had a-- um. Research," he pulls a book across the table, half-distracted. "I have to make sure I can do this. You have to come here, if you're up. If you were gonna sleep more, that's fine," he offers.

Chuck is up. So Sam is up.  
He rises and pulls his jeans on and goes to the table, takes the other chair. "What am I looking for?" he rubs sleep from his eyes.

Chuck just sits and blinks at him when he looks up. Hurt and confused. "Good morning, sweetheart?" he prompts.

Oh, _baby_. "Sorry! Sorry," he scoots closer to give Chuck kisses and ask how he slept and secure an arm around him. Chuck is getting used to the _extreme cheese_ Sam is exposing him to and, what probably started out as a measure of peacekeeping between them, of going with Sam's plan and letting himself be loved on, has quietly turned into expectation.

Nothing wrong with that.

It's totally fine. He loves spoiling Chuck. Now that they're all rooming back-to-back again, even Dean is getting used to the touchy-feelies. He still rolls his eyes but he doesn't gripe at them to stop.

Chuck goes soft for it now. Completely soft and easy, which is amazing. In the last few days, the more Sam finds footing with this plan, the easier Chuck's back is. He feels less stressed and scared and if he doesn't _think_ about mixing up his words, he just doesn't seem to do it. That's what's important, now - making the language thing seem normal enough to ignore.

Chuck leans into him and settles and places one open book atop another. "We have to whisper," he says, dropping his voice super low.

"Okay?" Sam clears his throat so he sounds less gritty. Repeats, "okay," in the tiniest voice he's got.

"So this," Chuck points to the book. "I can explain it to you if you can convince Cas to go away for a while."

"Why?" he thumbs over Chuck's hip.

He sits up, presses his mouth to Sam's ear. " _Secret plan to help Cas,_ " he says as low as possible.

Sam still gives him a questioning look, but he doesn't push it. Says into his ear, "I can ask them to bring back breakfast?"

Chuck nods.

"Are we calling the ladies over after they-"

Chuck's shaking his head already. "Just get rid of," he points to their room, "first," then leans up to kiss him.

Sam nods when Chuck lets him go.

He finds his overshirt and Chuck slips off to the shower while he heads over.

He doesn't need to knock. Their door is already open for the morning. Dean's pulling a jacket on and Cas is fussing with his shoes.

"We don't fix those, though," Dean is trying to explain. "We just buy new ones."

"But I like _these shoes_ ," Cas insists.

Sam leans against the doorframe. "You can get those at literally any Payless."

"Thank you," Dean tosses a hand at him. "Been trying to convince him for days."

"Cas, let Dean buy you new shoes. Come back with breakfast," he turns to Dean. "Chuck's not doing well with the light right now."

" _The Light_ or just the light outside?" Cas checks.

"Just the light outside."

"He may be pushing his mental limits," Cas narrows his eyes.

"I know, and it's my job to compensate, so I'll handle it. But I don't have anything left in my bag for us to eat-"

Dean claps him on the shoulder as he passes. "We got it. Put your crappy shoes on, Cas. Let's go. No more of this. You gotta let them go sometime."

Cas grumbles more but starts to get his stuff.

"If they don't have ones you like, we'll find you a pair online, okay?" Sam offers.

"Thank you," Cas says as if Sam is the only one being helpful here.

They're definitely gonna blow a half hour at the shoe store and come out with nothing.

Which is good. It should give Chuck an hour in total.

He watches the Impala cruise away and then steps over to wave in the doorway of the other room. Claire's still asleep but Charlie waves back and winks and goes back to watching cartoons.

Sam starts getting water heated while Chuck gets dressed. He takes over making coffee with the french press while Sam takes his turn. It's a tiny shower stall and it only makes him want to go home more.

Chuck isn't actually bothered by the light like he was the first few days, but he still prefers the lights off and the curtains pulled open, like back at the apartment.

Sam feels another wave of need for it when he comes out into the room scrubbing his hair.

Chuck shakes his head, stands from the table, and pulls him over to the bed. He makes Sam sit and takes the towel to pat and rub his hair dry for him. "You think I can't feel that?"

It hadn't actually occurred to him that it might be such an open feeling, actually. "Sorry."

"No, Sammy. Don't be sorry. I wanna go home, too, but it's a goal. We treat it like a goal, not an impossible longing," he drops the towel to the sheets and comes forward, between Sam's knees. Sam just goes fucking weak for the way he starts carding through his hair and kissing his head.

He puts his arms around Chuck and refuses to melt into it with his eyes closed. He stares and absorbs him and takes the small victory that Chuck still wants him to think of the future as good. Still wants to push him away from past pains and into happiness. Chuck still believes in him; Chuck still wants to see what their _tomorrow_ looks like. He almost died on Sam's watch and it just does not fucking matter to him. He still wants to go home. He's still pulling out books for research. He's still pleased to be sharing headspace.

Sam keeps realizing over and over again that he's not gonna have to do this alone. Every time it makes him need to hold Chuck and be held back - absorb the solid reality of it.

"We have more than just the 15 minutes?" Chuck asks, mouth against his forehead.

"Cas is being bratty about needing new shoes. I think we have like 40 minutes still. Please? Please please please."

Chuck kisses him for a good three minutes, then eases off, keeping hold of his neck. "I have a secret plan."

"What kind of secret do we have to keep from Cas? Did Charlie give you permission?"

"No. We have to decide if we want to do this. Then we have to convince Dean it's gonna be okay. Then Dean will tell us if it's a family project or if he wants to take care of it alone with Cas."

"So I can tell Dean when he gets back," that's a relief.

Chuck kneads into his neck a little and seems to assess him. Then he leans down to kiss from Sam's mouth to his chin to his throat. He moves to straddle Sam, kneels over him on the bed, and pulls his collar aside to suck a kiss there. To bite at his skin and Sam didn't expect that. He _needs_ it. Didn't know but now he's holding his breath and clutching at Chuck's hips.

Chuck kisses it when he's done. "Better?"

"Oh god yes. I mean fuck yes." That should ruin the mood but Chuck smiles so genuine, eyes crinkling.

"I like how this has made you see things my way. Less 'god' more 'fuck.'"

"Yeah, now I feel you on that whole cursing-the-sky thing."

"Sam, I have a secret plan to restore Castiel's wings."

"Umm." He just. Blinks. "Wow?"

"I think, since we all gotta stick together for now, we should do this. If anybody has major doubts, I'll campaign for it because we need this. You and me need to go home and Cas deserves to have something nice because he puts so much work into keeping us alive."

" _Yes_ ," he pulls Chuck closer.

"Dean is gonna have a problem with it and you know why."

"Yeah. Yeah, I know."

"We have to be ready to convince him that it doesn't mean Cas will fly away from him. It just means we'll still be able to have our own house, without you worrying that we're too far away for him to heal me. It will mean that Cas can get to any of us if we're in trouble."

" _Fuck yes_."

"Also it means Dean will never be 4 hours away from you. He'll always have Cas to help him get to you."

Fucking beautiful. "Holy shit. Holy shit, yes. Good. Fine. How do we do it??"

"I need help. We gotta research, work the case. But if you think it's do-able, we tell Dean next."

"You're do-able. You're so fucking hot. You make me so happy," he simply gushes.

Chuck smiles all pleased again. "Let's go look at your hickey and then take me to the table." He tries to move back but Sam just hauls him up and into his arms. Chuck moves aside so Sam can check himself in the mirror. "I could use a few more of these." It's only a minor red mark. It won't bruise much.

"Okay. Remind me. Tell me when you want things, Sam."

He hugs Chuck close and takes him to the table. "What I want is to know how we're gonna execute your plan. Where did you get the idea?"

Chuck settles into his chair again. "I can read things I couldn't before."

"Okay. That makes sense. Is it safe for you to do that, though?"

"Um. I don't know," he admits. "So we're going to look at a page and use the bind to read it together. I think, if you help me, it will keep me from getting confused or fucked up."

He sits close and stays tight to him. "'Kay. You wanna try it now? What are we using?"

Chuck moves some books aside to reveal a stack of wrinkled, loose pages. Photocopies.

"What's that?"

"These were wrapped around the angel blades. Remember the tree we found that Bobby warded? The two blades in a bag?"

Shit. He forgot about those pages.

Chuck takes a breath. "I'm worried about abusing this and just. I don't think you can get fucking superpowers like this without consequences. And, honestly, I have _trust issues_ ," he glares up, "with that bastard. I don't think this 'gift' he gave me is a gift at all. So. I can recognize some of this at a glance? But to interpret entire lines, I think I need you to help me balance myself out. I know we can have Cas do the majority of the reading, but I think it's best to see if I can really get an outline of it before we get Cas's hopes up. So you'll help me?"

Fucking of course. He nods. "Show me what we're looking at first."

They both stare at the page for a moment. Sam tries to memorize the first chunk of text, then he pushes himself into the hallway. Chuck isn't far. He's trying to hold the page in front of them very steady. It resolves into English as Sam stands with him and fills in the gaps in what he can't remember.

After a while Chuck takes deep breaths and Sam pulls back to be in the room with him. "That's a lot easier than one word at a time. Thanks."

"Of course," he keeps his arm around Chuck and they work through the pages.

It becomes clear that Chuck's memory was jogged by some significant words that were basically pre-translated for him, giving him a clue. Words that must have seeped through the leak with meaning readily attached. Meanings which he doesn't have to _reach_ for.

Sam puts it together slower than Chuck does but he follows where this is going after a while.

"I think there are a couple pages missing," he sorts through the stack they've gone over but they're all in order. He sits back after a minute. "We need to use Charlie's program, everything she's scanned so far. Or wait to see if Cas knows the general direction here. But. I mean. I think I do."

"You do? Grace extraction? I mean, this is weird."

"Uh, the-- the tracking thing? Remember I told you Gadreel left grace in me? Cas tried to extract it and it. Well, it hurt. But it had been long enough that most of it had dissipated. He couldn't extract enough grace to make the spell work. So. We need to know, because Cas hopped into Dean in Oregon-"

"But that was probably way too long ago," Chuck fills in.

"And it seems like there's something else missing. There's gotta be more to something this heavy-duty. It can't be enough that Cas hops in, hops out, and that trace is enough to extract. Dean probably has to be blessed while it's in him or something."

Chuck considers. "We do need more information. But I think we can agree it looks like it's for causing and then reversing serious damage in angels. That must have been why Bobby had it warded and stored with a pair of blades."

Sam nods. Yeah, that really is what it looks like. Bobby must have known this could come in handy in taking Cas down a peg while maybe not taking Dean's best friend away from him entirely. That must have been the point of the little care package he left in the tree.

"You wanna tell them separately or you wanna make it together, with the both of them?"

Sam really can't see it going well if Dean isn't first fully convinced that Cas won't leave him as soon as he's got his wings back.

He'll do it. He'll accept it. But he will be completely _afraid_ the whole time.

"Dean first."

Chuck nods. "And are you okay with your brother doing this?"

No. But he has no reason not to trust Cas to stay. He really doesn't, despite what Dean will fear. And if he kept this away from Dean, Dean would eventually find out somehow and never forgive him.

Dean will be scared, but, more than that, he'll want the opportunity to fix the person he loves.

"Cas saved you for me. Twice. Really he's our friend and our brother and he does _so fucking much_ for us. If I can trust him with Dean and trust him with you, I have to believe I can trust him with this."

Chuck reaches up and draws him down to hold him. "Go open the door so they know they can come in." But he doesn't let go for a while. "I married the perfect guy," he says, and it sounds like he's marveling again. He hasn't gotten stuck in disbelief in a while. It's cool to know that hasn't changed.

"I married my equal," Sam says.

«»

Sam hears the car and gets up to help bring stuff in.

Charlie pokes her head out and looks to them.

"Breakfast," Sam points.

"Oh."

They help haul everything into Dean & Cas's room. Cas makes another trip out, though, and comes back with a huge bag.

Dean looks pleased.

"He bought me two sets of shoes," Cas sounds amazed. And Charlie is a good sport about him showing them off since there's food involved.

Dean sees him scooping their stuff up to take next door. "Chuck okay?"

"Yeah. Um. Can I steal you, though?"

Dean frowns but agrees. "Lemme grab Claire first."

Claire streaks by the door and announces her presence over there loudly. Then Dean comes in looking frazzled. Closes the door behind him. "Hey woodchuck."

Chuck doesn't grumble much this time.

"We gotta let you in on something. We aren't telling," Sam points at the other room, "yet."

"Geeze. I'm the one who always gets in trouble for this shit and suddenly it's you two left and right with the secret projects."

"Voice," Chuck whispers at him.

Dean sighs and takes Sam's seat. Sam comes to stand between the two of them.

Chuck scribbles across a notebook. **We have a plan to get Cas his wings back. Want in?**

"Fuck yes," Dean blurts.

Then. Inevitably.  
Sits back and hesitates.

Sam puts his hand on his shoulder. "Dean," he whispers, "he will never just fly off and disappear again. He knows better. He knows you love him. He knows which family he feels like he's a real part of." Sam rattles him a little. "He loves you. That won't change."

"That might change." Dean objects, voice empty.

"You can be the good guy, though," Chuck whispers. "Give him this back and let him prove it to you."

"He wouldn't just be leaving you," Sam points out. "I'm terrified that could happen, too, because it could hurt you. Hurt Claire. Hurt Charlie. Hurt any of us if we came too close to death and he couldn't catch us. But, Dean. He deserves to be whole. You k-"

"I know that," Dean breathes. "Yeah, I know that. So? Plan?"

«»

Cas comes next.

It's been long enough that Cas got nervous, started hanging outside the door and pretending not to listen while Dean read all the notes as Chuck jotted them down.

Dean simply opens the door, stands aside. "C'mon."

Cas looks like he's being invited in for an execution. He didn't hear enough.

"You want the girls in on this?" Dean asks him. "It's up to you. This is a you-n-me thing."

Cas at least loses a little of the worry to curiosity. "I would like them to know as much as the rest of us," he nods.

Sam finally makes Chuck sit aside and eat his breakfast while he and Dean explain.

Cas reads through the pages. "Some are missing," he confirms. Then passes them to Charlie so she can scan them in. He takes a deep breath. "I don't feel comfortable with this plan."

Dean smiles a little. "Glad I'm not the only one."

"Extracting the grace from Sam was painful," Cas says.

"Ideally, this will be fresher, easier to get at," Sam objects.

"I will have to occupy Dean again. He hates the very idea of-"

"Come on, Cas," Dean shakes his head. "It's you. I'd do it for you."

"We don't know what's missing from this spell," Cas tries another angle.

"We'll find it," Charlie insists. "My program will find it or we'll compare the last of the books we haven't scanned in yet. If Bobby had this, we _will_ find it."

"This isn't our top priority at the moment," Cas indicates Chuck.

"I'm Sam's job, now. You're the backup. We can't rely on you forever," Chuck says before raising his coffee again.

Cas blinks. "I don't. There's not." He stops. And Claire grins, satisfied that he's run out of arguments. But then: "Dean doesn't want me to have my wings back."

The looks that land on the both of them now are wary.

Dean ignores them. Takes a deep breath. "If you wanted to leave me? I think you would have told me by now. Nobody tells _Castiel, Angel of the Lord_ where he belongs without gettin' an ass whoopin."

Cas _can't_ ignore everyone. His eyes fly around the whole room once.

Then he looks to the table. The pages Charlie is flattening out.

"If we're going to exchange grace," he pauses. "Will you." He stops again. Rises from the table, knocking it so it rattles. Charlie jolts a little, trying to keep stuff from toppling off the side. "Sorry," Cas apologizes and helps her.

Sam looks back at Chuck as the rest of them are snorting laughter. But Chuck is wide-eyed. Holds out a hand to him.

He comes in close to whisper. "Sweetheart, you ok-"

"Shh," Chuck hushes him. "Watch watch holy shit watch this."

Sam turns to watch as Cas comes around the table to Dean and just blurts, "Then you should marry me."

Claire was laughing before but now she is _losing her shit_.

Dean just sputters for like half a minute then shouts, "You said no!!"

"No," Cas droops, "I didn't."

"YEAH you fucking DID. I fucking asked and you said-"

"I said that, technically, we're already a mated pair."

"I ASKED YOU. YOU SAID NO," Dean looks seriously hurt about it now. In a way he hasn't even shown to Sam.

The room goes silent.  
He suddenly worries he's about to see Dean book it and not return for a week. (A month. Or three.)

Dean looks around at them. Scrubs a hand down his face. "Shut up. Don't say that shit," he finally decides, rubbing at his eyes like he's tired.

Cas nods. Looks a little blown away. And turns to sit back on the other side of the table.

He can't fucking believe that just-

"Yeah okay," Dean says. And he looks like his own words took him by surprise.

Cas stops. Narrows his eyes back at him. "Yes?"

Dean shrugs. Shifts to his other foot. Shoves his hands in his pockets.

Pulls out a ring and lobs it at Castiel's head.

It pings, bouncing off and Cas winces and watches it hit the wall and roll to the floor.

"OH my FUCKING god," Claire busts out laughing again.

By the time Dean and Cas go shut themselves outside - probably to punch each other in the mouth and then make out - Claire and Charlie are quite literally holding each other, crying laughing, howling and nearly falling to the floor.

Sam sits, leaning back on the bed, and dumps his legs across Chuck's lap where he sits on the far end.

"I will never-ever feel like a dork about us ever again," he shakes his head.

Neither will Sam.


	10. it's hard to be a human being

They have to give Dean and Cas space for a day.

After the family meeting there's a lot of yelling followed by _pounding_ from next door.

So. Yeah.  
Stuff Sam doesn't want to hear about.

Sam drives the four of them around. Chuck hasn't been out in the world a whole lot lately and they need to buy some stuff. Then they need to pack and tomorrow will be the last stretch to the bunker.

Charlie wants to leave her computers alone while they scan her massive archive to look for a match of the photocopies.

It seems as if Bobby was mostly concerned with the reverse of the pages. A kind of large-scale banishing and some lore about Nephilim. The missing text in the middle will give them an idea of what more the spell involves. And if the archives don't have the pages, they go home and search through whatever hasn't been scanned.

If it's still missing? Things get a little harder.

Sam knows they'll all look to Chuck. They'll ask him if Bobby had anymore stashes out there. And right now? Digging into other peoples' heads is so fucking far off limits it's not even funny. Sam will not watch that happen. He can't allow it while Chuck is healing.

If they can't do that, of course, they either have to give up on the idea or turn to the spell that burned all the wings off all the angels in the first place. They'll have to hunt down Metatron.

He escaped after Cas got his grace back and no one has heard from him, since. It would definitely be better to keep Marv out of this. He's nothing but trouble and he certainly wouldn't want to reverse his own spell.

They would also have to consider that reversing it might give all the angels their wings back. That's risky. They're powerful enough without the ability to zap around everywhere. The only one they can really trust to restore is Cas. Castiel has already power-tripped out. He wouldn't use his wings to do it again. He'd stay here and use his wings for good, with his family.

It wasn't a perfectly-timed proposal, and far from the kind of homey, soft promises Dean would secretly prefer. But it was a good move on Cas's part.

He'll get his wings and prove they won't ever take him far from Dean. He made Dean that classically human promise, even though he didn't have to. Didn't seem to want to, even. At least not before.

Yeah. It was a good move. Cas knows what Dean's worried about, even if he doesn't say it.

Sam knows that Cas loves his brother. The distance they put between them is always just because shit gets overwhelming for Dean. Behind closed doors it's probably more sickening than him and Chuck.

But.

There's a nagging little spike of anger he's finding it hard to ignore.

Dean _did_ propose, something like a year ago, and Cas kind of blew it off. But when it was Cas's idea, suddenly Dean was under pressure to accept.

Look. At the end of the day, he knows it doesn't really matter. What matters is that they can be a family and support each other and part of that is facilitating Dean's happiness and making Cas whole again.

And he knows Dean and Cas tug on each other's heartstrings like that - swaying too-close and backing away from one another.

It just pisses Sam off a little that Cas as good as refused when Dean asked, initially.

Chuck saw it coming and Sam had half-imagined it was a joke - they'd laughed about it before leaving Oregon. And now it's fine - it's resolved.

Sam still stings for his brother. For the hurt that made him tell Cas to shut up and not say that shit.

Dean isn't an idiot. He knows Cas can leave him just as readily if they've had a damn ceremony and have the damn rings or not. He isn't bound by human covenants.

And, Dean being Dean, it probably cost him something to ask in the first place. Dean never used to say he loved anyone except mom. He'd admit he loved Sam occasionally. But he's _in love_ , in messy, never-ending, unsettling love with Cas.

Castiel tries to make this easier on Dean by making it seem like no big deal. But if it's a big enough deal for him to make his own proposal to Dean, after the fact, Sam just wants to know why Cas didn't make it earlier, when it wasn't tangled up in as much of a mess.

And it is a mess. Dean's handing Cas the ability to disappear on him and not come back. He's giving Cas easier access to heaven if he chooses to have it. And depending who you ask, either angels cherish the idea of having their brother back and long for his presence, or they want him gutted, decimated, or at least made an example of.

It was a near thing, but for a moment there, Dean would rather have never discussed it again than treated Castiel's proposal seriously.

For a moment there he still didn't think he could trust Cas with himself, especially not while strapping his wings back on.

Sam is just a little disturbed by that.

Granted, Dean is a tad overdramatic at times. But the hurt comes from a serious place. They have sincerely hurt each other. Maybe Sam's worry is too little, too late, but he really doesn't appreciate that it seems to have taken Cas so much time to understand what this meant to Dean.

There is a possibility that Dean earned the cool response when he initially asked. Maybe he was making up for being a prick by asking Cas to marry him and Cas wasn't about to accept that as a resolution. Maybe it was heated. Maybe it was flippant. Maybe it was Dean's attempt to end a lovers spat. Who knows?

Sam kinda has to admit it's not his place to say anything.

It's just that a part of him - a little part of him - wants to remind Cas that this text seems like it could break an angel as easily as fix him.

He really fucking wants Dean to finally be goddamn happy. To stop checking over his shoulder, waiting to find that everyone has left him alone, to protect his own six.

It's not okay that Cas would walk through that door, when Dean opens it, and pull it closed.

Dean's first proposal was a while ago, though. Sam doesn't know how or when it happened - Dean didn't give him details, barely admitted it, in fact. And the denial didn't end with Dean driving off and disappearing for a month. So, more than likely, it happened in Dean and Cas's own language and it didn't scar Dean up too deep.

But he was a little hurt that Cas wouldn't muggle-marry him.

He had accepted the blow and decided to live with it to the point that, when Cas opened the subject again, it stung him rather than being all he wanted.

Chuck lets Sam be distracted from conversation for a while, then loops his arm through Sam's and tugs him the opposite way down the aisle as they cruise some big-box store.

The ladies go the other way, enthusing about something he can't much remember.

Chuck hangs on to his arm and they get weird looks so Sam curls Chuck's hand around his forearm and pets his fingers down, keeping it up, glaring when people make faces.

"You're angry about the way Cas did that," Chuck picks from his head.

Sam kinda shrugs.

"They make sense to each other, Sam. If it had been easy for them, it wouldn't have been very _them_."

Well. That's incredibly true.

Chuck leans into him as they walk. "You can tell Cas the consequences if he bails on Dean. You can be the protective brother. He'll know you mean well."

"I don't even have any consequences to throw in his face."

"Pretty sure I do," Chuck shrugs. "Somewhere in my brain. Something we could threaten him with to keep him in line. I have one idea. It's flimsy but it'll do for a threat."

"Okay?"

"Angel-proofing. The heavy-duty kind you can't see. If he skips out on Dean he won't be allowed back. We paint it on the bottom of the Impala. Invisible stuff like—like, remember when Alistair tried to 'kill death' by kidnapping those reapers?"

"You know how to write that stuff??"

"At this point? I could figure it out." He gives this tired look that makes Sam want to sit him down. Then he sighs and looks up. "You also need to stop telling me I'm gonna live forever while thinking about how far past expiration I am."

"You're not-"

"I _am_ and I'm old but it's fine, alright? I'm fine. I feel better each time we work on this but it's not instant and you're being impatient about that at the same time you're being _super patient_ with me. Just chill with me, damn. Like. Just choose to fucking retire with me. You said you would."

"I will. I am." He turns them toward the cafe. "I smell churros."

Chuck wrinkles his nose. "I smell hot dogs."

Sam veers them back away.

Two aisles later Chuck fidgets. "We can go back."

"We can get a snack someplace else," Sam shrugs.

He's still hanging on to him and now he slows their pace. Feels for something in the bind. It's rising in the hall like pressure that squeezes Chuck ever smaller. The way he's been reacting to some things now-

It's like he feels he can't express his opinion. It's like he's pushing himself into a corner and strapping a gag to his own words.

Naturally, Sam has felt this happen only two times and he's already pegged it for fucking elimination.

Nobody should ever attempt to tell Chuck how his words ought to work.

Least of all the ghost of the being who _used him_.

Sam pulls him aside and they look in on the bakery workers.

"Sweetheart? Guess what?"

Chuck shrugs.

"Having opinions of your own _is not equal to_ Chuck Winchester playing god. Got it? You're not gonna start burying yourself just so you don't risk coming off as the boss."

Chuck motions to himself. "No one would mistake me for a boss."

"And that's exactly what you're having an issue with, isn't it?" Sam challenges. "You don't want our ideas of you to change."

Chuck lets go of him. Digs his hands deep in his pockets, leans on them. "I don't like the jokes about how I outrank-." He stops. "I'm um. The jokes are. Okay." He takes a breath to look up. To meet Sam's eyes again. "The jokes kinda make me want to die."

His eyes skitter off somewhere safe and neutral, watching rolls get separated and bagged, over and over.

Sam's not going to handle this well. As much as he knows himself and his abilities - including the ability to reason with his very reasonable husband - he feels suddenly out of his depth.

The teasing bothers Chuck because he's always thought of god as an asshole. Now god is his abuser. Seeing the capacity for that within himself is disgusting to him now. Shameful. Scary. Worrisome to the point that he'd rather not present his opinions least they be given too much weight by his history with his abuser.

Chuck doesn't want to see god within himself.

If Sam doesn't calm down and get some distance from that very raw idea, he will get so angry about the teasing that he'll lash out about it. He doesn't wanna snap at his family for calling Chuck 'god. ' They think it's harmless because they just don't know how this feels. Maybe Dean and Claire understand a little. But they don't know what it is to hate, deep within you, what you've been told you reflect as the vessel of a mighty and destructive and uncaring being.

Lashing out at them for a casual tease could only make Chuck more uncomfortable; only land more focus on him.

Sam breathes deep. He needs to-

Okay. As a comparison? Nobody calls Dean "Cas" now because he carried Cas around. And nobody calls Sam "Lucifer" - at least not to his face, antichrist references aside.

He takes another breath. "Gimme this," Sam says, pulls Chuck's hand out of his pocket and drags him close. They watch the bakers for a while longer.

There's an entire lecture Sam could give him on how he only belongs to himself. The downside is that he also knows how much it won't help. He has been where Chuck is right now, mentally, and what would work for him is exactly what Chuck's done so far - just keep quiet and avoid notice and do your best to be the better man.

So Sam can just make himself into the comfortable place where Chuck can go when he feels this way. When he wants to _die_ because other people don't quite get what it can mean to be pegged with the qualities of your abuser.

He takes the hand he's holding and brings it up to kiss. Lays one on his wedding ring. "Is it okay if I talk to the others? Ask them not to say that about you?"

As Sam knew he would be, Chuck is reluctant to draw any attention to the matter.

"It's not okay for you to feel that way. And if it starts forcing you to you stifle yourself just because you don't want the nickname to stick, we aren't talking about a harmless gag. What you've been through-- Chuck. It's too heavy. I won't watch you deal with it in silence. You know how I feel about you holding back your words. Even if you weren't speaking English I'd have to hear you," Sam reminds him.

Chuck looks around them. Like he's being cautious for the damn muggles again.

Sam aches for him. He is so not okay with Chuck putting anyone before them anymore. Not even for the safety and sanity of muggles who might overhear. And the impulse for Chuck to protect others from himself has got to be squashed before it takes an actual foothold.

He's so _good_. He would never attempt to lord over anyone. "You shouldn't feel this way because of the guy who fucking _used_ you like you were a disposable suit," he brings Chuck into his arms and tries to hug some of the tension out of him. "I didn't smell the hot dogs. I really just wanted you to sit down for a few minutes. I still think you should." He feels somehow slightly flimsy in Sam's arms. Maybe he's never been heavy or immovable, but he's always had at least some tension-tight strength, a backbone and tight, strong arms.

"I don't need to sit, I'm fine. Can you." He stops again. "Can you get Charlie to stop saying it at least? She's been doing it the most but I don't wanna be telling her what to do and just reinforce what it means."

"Of course, Chuck. She's gonna understand. It's not asking much."

"You know how in _The Matrix_ they'd plug a guy in and he'd be like 'I know kung fu'?"

"Uh," Sam blinks, "yeah?"

"That's not as cool as it sounds. It's unsettling. I had to find places to put all this shit away before and now I've got even more of it to deal with."

Sam hugs him tight. "At least you don't have to press those doors, right?"

Chuck doesn't move and there's a distinct feeling over the bind that Sam is ashamed he didn't recognize before: Chuck doesn't want him to be disappointed by the truth.

"Oh sweetheart," he breathes. "This is so much work. Please don't do all this work on your own. Please let me help. Please let me. I know it's not the same when I do it for you but I'll learn. I'll get better at it. I'll practice your brain stuff. You don't have to handle any of it alone."

"Kiss my head?" Chuck asks quietly.

Sam kisses over his hair and down to his ear.

"I do need to sit down, I think," and Sam knows he seriously does by now because he's actually admitting it.

He gets him a seat as far from the hot dogs as possible and Sam buys a churro, texts Charlie where they are. She and Claire come up to the registers with just _tubs_ of snacks and whatever Dean demanded for tonight via text. There's a park, near the motel, with little grilling stations. They look shady, but Dean's done more with less.

Sam helps them unload the cart and check out and circles back around to get Chuck.

He's shaking a little.

"Hey," Sam gets him up and Chuck presses to his side, wordlessly asking to be helped. "Maybe this was a little much. I'll get you-"

"Sit in the back seat with me?" he pleads between his teeth.

It's hard to endure the entire walk back to the car and loading all the groceries up. Knowing Chuck needs him and not being able to give relief immediately makes Sam angry with just about everything.

He bottles it. He does. Tosses Charlie the keys without a word and holds the front passenger door open for Claire without comment.

Before Sam can even close the back door and settle in the seat, Chuck is reaching for him. Needs to be eased so deeply that Sam ends up carrying him into the motel like one of the groceries when they're parked back at the lot.

But they get it done. Sam takes the pressure off and calms Chuck and puts his mind at ease enough to sleep.

"Maybe the reading was too much?" he asks when he settles Chuck on the bed and he wakes up.

"I'm fine. I was fine. Just. Maybe not for that long. Maybe I-" he shakes his head. "I donno. Please fucking rest with me. Please," he clamps his eyes shut. "It feels like you're the only person even _attempting_ to make sense to me right now. I think I just need you."

Not a problem. Sam shuts and locks their door, kills the lights, and kicks his shoes next to where he dropped Chuck's. He climbs into bed and wraps Chuck up.

"This is what I get. I married you for this. I get to be the Chuck meat in a Sam burrito. I barely even need pillows and sheets. I just use you."

Well obviously that's gonna answer something deep and demanding inside of Sam. "Impenetrable soft shell. We're tex-mex again. I'm gonna slather you in. Well."

"Beans," Chuck decides.

"Sour cream had more of the implication I was going for but also sounded gross?"

"Salsa?"

"Dangerous to get spicy stuff too near your junk."

"Cheese. Lettuce. Guacamole."

Sam considers. "Yeah I'll still go with sour cream."

The bind tells him Chuck isn't going back to sleep; there are no pages. Sam makes hushing noises in his hair and puts a hand under his shirt. He makes a tiny, eased noise but grips Sam's arms real firm.

"I was so ready for- I just." Chuck breathes for a while. "We were gonna just live to be happy. It felt that simple for a while. I feel like I screwed that up," his voice is thin and sad.

Nose in his husband's colorful hair and looking at the prospect of being able to hang out in his hallway for the rest of their lives-- their _existence_. Sam didn't think their long-view on married contentment had really vanished at all. He tries to take it light because Chuck sounds nearly defeated by the idea, and, of course, is somehow blaming himself for dying. "We don't do 'simple' really well. Sweetheart, I had to survive a few apocalypses to find you. Apocali? What's the plural of apocalypse?"

Chuck huffs a laugh.

"And you didn't screw that up. Even if you dared Aiden to come at you - which I doubt - you didn't fuck up our happily-ever-after. You gotta recover from getting the crap kicked out of you again. That's all. And Cas will be able to-"

"What if I'm never stable? What if I plateau and I don't get better?"

Sam shifts and sighs. "When have we ever settled for less-than-saved? We saved you. We'll fix you."

Chuck is quiet for a while.

Hoping that he's headed back towards sleep, Sam closes his eyes and focuses on the bind because he's suddenly curious.

"He came up to me," Chuck says, quiet, before he can find it. Or even figure out how to look for it. "I waited and I thought I heard Dean whistle. And. Aiden was ducking in the shadows. It was the stupidest fucking thing. I lost track of him for a second and I. I like. Felt weird. So I had no reason to take the blade out. But I did. Only he whistled again and I thought Dean-- and. He just grabbed-" Chuck stops and takes a breath and he tries to show Sam the images.

He shoved Chuck sideways, against the brick steps, took his bad knee out that way, grabbed the blade as he tried to catch himself. Chuck whirled away and lost him in the shadows and-

Sam takes an ice cold breath and blinks away from it. Sees without knowing he wasn't ready for it. Sees the end of the blade that came all the way through Chuck's chest when he looks down in the memory--

Air rattles out of Sam. He doesn't much have a right to the borrowed pain, but he can't shake it anyway.

Soothes himself by reaching down and moving their legs. Rubbing a massaging thumb into Chuck's knee until he melts, moans.

"I know we have Cas but. I also know he can't fix things that are sort of ingrained in what we are. So. Maybe we need to see if a doctor can do something about your knee."

"Something like what?"

No idea. It isn't that bad, he doesn't wobble on it unless they've had a full day of running around, but abuse can't be good for it. What if the initial break means that things are growing wrong into the healed muscle? Weird bone build-up or something? Or maybe he'd be more steady on an artificial one. Or maybe he ought to be wearing a brace? Sam has no idea. He just wants this knee to hold his husband up until he's an old man.

"It's okay, Sam. It works well enough. I'll be fine."

"I can get you in to see somebody without-"

"I'll only go if we go to someone for your ticky shoulder, too."

Sam sighs and keeps rubbing his knee. "Maybe. Maybe. Sleep some more, sweetheart."

"I sleep so much. I leave you alone and-"

"It won't be that way forever. Just while you're getting better."

Chuck is quiet for a while. "Just worried I'm gonna spend what little time I got left _sleeping_."

No. He's so sick of thinking that way. "You know what? We have no proof, whatsoever, that you're on the verge of dying. No proof that you ought to be dead. And no matter what Cas has said, I didn't find you with one foot in the grave, Chuck. I found you in a diner, living your life. You aren't dying. And we're not gonna act like you're on the verge of dying. You're alive and you're getting better and I have too many open projects with you for you to just dip out on me. So don't. And stop talking like you will."

He's silent for another long while before... he nods. Scoots a little and Sam lets him turn in his arms. Tightens back up around him. "Okay," he agrees out loud. "You're gonna have to remind me tomorrow."

Tomorrow. Always. Yes.

"Oxford," he adds.

Sam pets his back. "Go to sleep. I'll wake you up for Dean's big engagement barbecue."

"You can't let me keep getting away with thinking like that. I really will if you don't boss me around."

"Then I'll boss you around, I promise. You just told me to. You just said some of my favorite stuff. I'll keep on you about it Tomorrow and the Next Day. Okay?"

Chuck closes his eyes.

"Good job, crab." Sam rubs his back a while. "I love you," he decides to repeat and repeat it until he's hoarse. Until he feels paper swirl around the hallway. "I love you love you love you love you..."

The hallway is dark like someone shut the lights off but there's still afternoon sun coming in the windows. He walks a while and finds Chuck sitting, staring at a notebook in his lap. One of the doors is open down the hall but there's an elbow bobbing in the light of the room, a canvas beyond, set up on an easel. Calming art noises. He sits next to Chuck. Waits for pages to fall soft and quiet, like a light snow.

Tomorrow he will laugh at Chuck like Cas laughs at Dean about living eternity in heaven. He will laugh at Chuck for being stuck with dumbass brother-in-laws and election years he can no longer vote in and Sam's own awful onion farts for the rest of forever. He will laugh until the absurdity feels genuine. Then he will bully Chuck into feeling healthy. He will boss him around and make out with him like a teenager whenever nobody's paying attention.

And the next day. And the next.

«»

Sam and Chuck get to the bunker after Charlie and Claire, before Dean and Cas.

It turns out Krissy and Josie were waiting nearby for somebody with a key.

So the bunker fills up more crowded than before.

More uncomfortably than before.

Down at the end of the hall, Krissy shuts her own door when Sam follows Chuck down to the dorms.

He clunks down on their bed while Chuck shuffles stuff around and closes the door.

He lets that happen around himself for a few minutes trying that thing Chuck has taught him. Trying to figure himself out. But when their belongings are pretty much spread out, with Chuck still moving back and forth and around the bed, Sam closes his eyes and tries to wander from the mental motel room without touching Chuck.

He feels like he should be able to do it at this distance by now. They shouldn't have to be touching _every time_.

He can't find him, though.

Sam blinks back to the room and Chuck is paused by the dresser, head cocked to the side. "Are you looking for me?"

"Yeah."

Chuck takes a deep breath, staring at him. Then shakes his head, closes his eyes. Sam does, too.

"One thing at a time," Chuck says after a while without success. "We probably need to practice more to get to that point. That might be kind of a tall order right now."

"Yeah. I know," he says through his teeth.

He opens his eyes again when Chuck kneels to either side of him on the bed. Sam automatically shifts himself and his husband so Chuck can sit comfortably. His hands are gentle on Sam's neck and up under his hair. They aim to be soothing when Sam would rather he be pushed down on the bed, his shirt wrestled away, his mouth attacked.

"So hey. You keep having this realization that you need to listen to me."

Oh. Holy fuck. Sam exhales. Unclenches. Tugs Chuck against himself so he won't topple backwards.

"Yes. Sorry. Not pushing it. Gonna be patient. Gonna practice," he says, because it's the right thing to say. He doesn't want to be patient, but it's very, very true, as evidenced by recent events, that he needs to listen when Chuck decides something for them.

"Okay. So you need to tell me what's bugging you. Out loud. So I can help?" he prompts.

Sam hugs him. Lets Chuck's gentle things happen to himself. Plants his mouth on his shoulder and breathes.

"I'm angry. I feel threatened and I don't know why," he lets the words stumble out without really knowing their origin.

Chuck pets his hair. "Okay. When did you start feeling angry?"

Birth. "Just now I guess." Really, if he's honest with himself, when the bunker's tower was in sight he felt relief. Couldn't wait to get everybody inside and feel safe. Now he's here and he's got a sick, sad feeling in his guts and he wanted to get to Chuck, check that he's not piling things up inside. He wanted to spread stuff out between the two of them. Work on it and discover more about their bind instead of examining this feeling. "I guess... I guess I wanted to be here and it doesn't feel like I expected."

"What did you expect?" Chuck picks apart.

"I wanted to be safe and surrounded. I wanted to plant us here for a few weeks and figure out Cas's grace thing for Dean and help figure that out and now. Now." He grips his hands in the fabric of Chuck's hoodie. "Now I want you to just punch me in the face."

"Wow, well, _that's_ not happening."

"Push me down, at least. Stop being nice to me."

"Okay! Not a chance!" He scoops Sam's head in his hands and brings him up close. "Squid, nobody gets to hurt you. And I would rather hurt me than hurt you. We're both here to keep us from that. Think about this instead of punching about it. You got here and it doesn't feel safe? Are your danger senses tingling or something?"

He tries to consider that. "No. I do feel safe here. But."

"But suddenly you don't feel welcome here," Chuck determines. "You know we have to stay. You know Dean wants you here. You're not worried about Cas. You're not--." He stops. "You need to talk to. Okay. Sam? You need to talk to Krissy. If she's ready, you need to get it over with. You can't let it fester."

"She's gonna blame me for killing someone she loved. And as much as I love her, I can't feel sorry," it breaks out of him.

"No, I know. Look. It wouldn't've done anything if we pulled the demon out of Aiden. Ten months, Sam. At ten months to a year, the damage is almost completely irreversible. That's assuming that the demon didn't secretly get shot or stabbed when he was in him. Even then, he probably didn't tend to the wound on his foot. He might have had a blood infection even if he was still sane in there. But it had been too long and Aiden wasn't as strong as the girls. He probably didn't even hang on for five months. Whenever the last time was that Krissy actually felt close and safe with him? That's when he might have still been around. Bottom line, you didn't kill him. That demon did. Probably months ago. Maybe at the very beginning."

This is a seriously cold comfort. And he knows how reason may take a while to sink into a teenager, still grieving.

"Also," Chuck hesitates. Licks his lips. "I don't think I'm the one ready to see Krissy. So somebody has to be civil between us. And you're always gonna be a bigger man than me. So I need you to do this on both our behalves."

"You don't blame her-"

"Sam. Claire got it before any of us did. Her and Dean's instincts. We should have questioned it. And Krissy? She's the daughter of a hunter. She was with the guy - probably closely? And she didn't recognize the signs. When he didn't want to come to the bunker, she put up with being browbeat out of it. He didn't wanna walk across a devils trap. She never noticed he wouldn't touch salt? Or holy water? I mean, come on."

"She was probably forced, then! It was probably fucking abuse! We can't hold that against her!"

"Then don't. Then go find out for sure. Ask. Listen. Because maybe she's relived or maybe she's fucked up about it or maybe she's being unreasonable or maybe she's ashamed. But whatever it is, we need to find out and help her. You have to start that for me because I never got a chance to be angry at that prick for killing me but I am now. He could have hurt any number of us and if we didn't have the bind, you wouldn't even have known I died out there, alone. And if she noticed?" He shakes his head. "If she noticed any of the warning signs and didn't tell Jody or Charlie or Dean? I can't shake that I'm pissed yet. You have to tell me I'm being unreasonable. I calm you down so you can calm me down. You know?"

Well, that's very true.

"Go ask if she's ready, at least?"

There's a knock on their door. They both look.

"It's me," they hear Dean.

Chuck climbs to the side and sits.

Sam lets his brother in.

Dean clears his throat. "Um. Hi." He shoves his hands in his pockets. "Cas is working on those papers with Charlie and Claire. Um." He points. "I'm gonna requisition Chuck?"

"Oh. Um." He turns.

Chuck blinks, frowns, shrugs.

"How far are you going?" he needs to know.

Dean rolls his eyes. "You two can do the stupid grocery shopping. Chuck and me are gonna... see. What's here. What we still need. With so many people in the house. And stuff."

He assesses his brother. Dean needs to build up to talking to Chuck. That's what he wants to do, now.

They're brothers, too. Dean's free to expect time with him.

It'll give Sam a chance to go have this conversation that's stressing him out. That's making him want to punish himself when Krissy's probably the one in actual emotional distress over it.

Sam comes to pull him up off the bed. Kisses the side of his head. "Don't kick his ass without letting me sell tickets first," he jokes.

"He's just gonna make me peel potatoes or something."

"Be nice," he demands.

Dean only shrugs and nods.  
Chuck makes no promises, which is standard.

«»

Josie answers when he knocks. "Sam?"

"Um. I wondered if Krissy-"

"She's outside." Zero concern, zero judgment from her.

"You think she's ready to talk to me?"

Josie looks him up and down. "I think so, but I'd rather you ask her. I'm glad Chuck's okay. And. I'm not sad about Aiden. I'm pissed. I mean. Not at you. At him. Which. I guess isn't reasonable. He had no choice," she shrugs.

That's not entirely true. There's more to demonic possession than just black smoke shoved down a gullet. You have to be vulnerable to it for some reason. Particularly weak of spirit at the time. And people are capable of shaking it off. Sam's seen it - done it. You have to want to. You have to have an inner strength. Have to care about the people you love enough.

And so Sam just realized he's more than a little qualified to speak to this. And both of them have been away from the rest of the family and the discussion on the point for the past couple weeks. They need to hear it.

"Come with?" he asks.

«»

Krissy's just outside. Sitting in a tree.

Josie steps ahead of him. "Wanna come down?"

"Not really," Krissy sighs.

"Pretty sure Sam could get up there. Not sure if I could," she comes to stop in front of the tree.

Krissy simply looks down at them.

"I wanna tell you some stuff. And I want you to talk," he shrugs, puts his hands in his pockets. "Say whatever you need to."

"Not interested."

Well. Okay then.

"Fine. But I am," Josie says, and plants herself at the bottom of the tree.

Good tactic.  
Sam drops down across from her.

"I blame Aiden," she says again. Looks up. "I don't blame Krissy, but she does."

"Well. I don't think blame really belongs anywhere," he skids his fingers in the grass. "Shit happens."

"So you don't think any blame belongs on you." Krissy's voice is quiet above them.

Josie waits for him to answer.

"Demons don't let you go the whole time they're inside," he explains. "You want out? Someone's gotta let you out. Or you gotta fight your way out."

"Never seen someone do that," Josie says.

"Bobby. Bobby Singer did. Rather than let the demon inside him stab Dean like he was ordered to, Bobby stabbed himself to save Dean. There was a woman we met once who was forced-- she was. It was bad. Awful for her. Nine months she was possessed. Managed to overpower the demon in her and pour salt in her mouth. Problem is, she came out the other side scared and paranoid and damaged and hurt. Just. Completely traumatized. They disregard your will. They use your body for things you'd never do and make you watch. It's a wonder when anyone can make it out from under possession alive. But after a certain amount of time? Your brain is just too boiled. Too used up. It varies for everyone, but around the year mark? There's probably no hope."

"So you think it's a mercy," Krissy spits.

"Not for everyone. For me it wasn't."

The ladies are both silent. Josie glances up.

People forget that about him. Or don't like talking about it.

Dying - falling to hell got Lucifer out of him. But it was no mercy.

"Chuck reminded me: the wound from removing the tattoo? There's no way the demon took care of it. Demons don't die of infections. They let you die of infection." He finally looks up. "If he didn't let you see his foot, he could have hidden a stab wound, a gunshot wound, any number of fatal injuries from you just as well. Aiden was probably gone."

"And if he wasn't, his mind was?" Josie asks.

Sam nods.

Krissy doesn't look down.

"I thought he had PTSD or something. I thought he was just getting emotional all the time. But he was in there. Needing my help and." She goes silent.

Josie shakes her head. "When they weren't fighting, they were." She shakes her head again. "I told them I'd leave if they kept robbing people."

What?? "Robbing people?"

Krissy starts climbing down. "I don't need the lecture on moral superiority."

"They always had money. I didn't find out why until a couple months ago. They were being Bonnie and Clyde," Josie rolls her eyes.

"Putting guns to peoples' heads??" Sam demands.

"Not all the time. God," Krissy points at Sam, "you guys steal constantly."

"We don't traumatize them!! We don't stick them up and threaten them!!" he barks at her.

"She knew something was wrong but she decided to enjoy it," Josie says.

"Look, little miss perfect," Krissy rounds and looms over her instead of walking away. "We'd be broke all the time if Aiden and I didn't do the _real_ work."

Sam stands to loom right back. And.

Shakes his head. Backs off. Breathes.

Krissy was just doing what she could. They never taught these kids how to really survive on their own. Dean wasn't forcing them to learn because he didn't want to trap them in the bunker.

They didn't teach them how to fend for themselves. They didn't drill the warning signs into them. They didn't insist.

They didn't make sure Krissy knew she didn't have to commit fucking crimes to be loved by somebody.

Sam breathes and scrubs at his hair for a second. Steps in front of Krissy as she's going.

"I'm. I'm sorry you lost somebody."

She rolls her eyes.

"I am. And I'm sorry it was somebody you were involved with. That always hurts and it sucks and I'm also seriously goddamn sorry we didn't give you all the tools you needed to get by so you thought you had to pull that shit. I'm sorry, Krissy. And things will change."

She just brushes past him and returns to the bunker.

Josie comes to his side and watches Krissy retreat. "I was gonna tell you guys. I couldn't decide if it was my place to tell you or to just leave because I couldn't handle it. I should have told Charlie." She looks up to Sam. "It's okay. Charlie will know what to do. Right?"

"We'll all figure it out. Charlie will pass down whatever order she needs to." He grabs at his own neck. "Were they. They weren't just. Like, assaulting people-"

Her look says it all. She knows it was bad and she doesn't even wanna explain how bad.

Dammnit.  
_Dammnit_.

"If we had shortened the leash on you guys it would have rubbed someone the wrong way, regardless." He can't imagine a scenario where it wouldn't. Even if Dean just offered them the fraudulent credit cards. They would have thought he was budgeting them out or monitoring them or something.

"It's not your job to be parents," Josie assures him. "It wouldn't have worked out if you guys had told us we didn't have a choice. Claire? She chooses to be this close. I think it's probably 'cause of Cas. And. Krissy lost her dad, you know? We lost people and we don't even have placeholders in our lives. It wouldn't have worked out," she repeats, shaking her head. "But now we do have to figure this out as a family. I won't let her leave. And I'll try to convince Alex to come down. I think Krissy could use a neutral party. I'm sorry I can't be that for her," she sighs. "I can't. I couldn't stand for what they were doing."

Sam nods. "Thanks for letting me know. I'll talk to Dean. We'll help her. We'll figure it out."

They start making their way back up the hill when Josie puts a hand out and pauses him. "Can I ask you something?"

He shrugs.

"How often do people actually thank you guys for saving the world?"

A laugh kinda startles out of him. Because. You know. Never? He clears his throat. "Not that often."

She smiles up at him. "Thank you, Sam. Seriously." She squeezes his arm and heads back up the hill leaving him behind, still and wondering.

«»

After a good long while avoiding it, he's sorely tempted to go steal his husband back from his brother.

Instead, he plants himself in the dungeon with a few boxes of the unscanned books and pulls up a playlist on his laptop. Remembers after a few minutes that they're not supposed to disappear to the dungeons without a note and walks half-way back up the steps where he gets enough of a signal on his phone to send Chuck a text before he settles in.

He tries to compare the books for any writing that looks similar or has a few of the key words or markings that Cas pointed out on the photocopies. He's at it for over an hour before he hears someone outside the door.

Chuck takes the books out of his hands and sits with his legs over Sam's lap. 

"Knee," he says.

Must be sore. Sam squeezes and massages his leg and really digs in around his knee. He flinches the first few times but eases into it. Hisses between his teeth a little.

"Just some more. Geeze. Wow. Yes. Um. Some more and then it's time for groceries."

Sam goes all warm inside. "We have a few places we need to go?"

"Yeah." He scoots forward to hook on to Sam and brush his hair back. "Somebody bummed you out. Who do I have to beat up?"

Sam laughs. "Um. I can handle it. Can we talk about it at the grocery store?"

"Yeah, Sammy." He sweeps Sam's hair back and back. Leans close to kiss his face. Sam drags him in and makes it deeper.

«»

On the drive Chuck says. "So, me first."

"Okay."

"Dean apologized like four more times for me getting stabbed. It hit him at some point that if Aid- the demon decided to cross the angel off our team, first, he would have been in the same position as you, so he's, like, _fucking miserable_ still. I tried to tell him that's not how it works, but he just. He's just beating himself to shit over it. He's so sad. I almost hugged him but I sent Cas to go do it, instead."

Sam snorts.

"He wants Krissy and Josie to stay for real so we brainstormed about it. And he asked what he's supposed to cook for me and I tried to explain that I get tired of stuff on a daily basis. He thanked me for thinking up the wing plan but he needed somebody 'more neutral' to tell him that Cas isn't gonna leave forever. I did what I could but then I told him to call and explain it to Donna. So we put her on speaker and that was just fucking hilarious, but she ended up agreeing after hearing their epic tales of unrequited love."

"Oh my g-fuck. Did you tell her the whole story??"

"Dean tried to fudge over it at first but yeah! Holy shit-" he grabs Sam's arm. "Coup de grâce- she called him 'Dean-Dean Jelly Bean'. I thought I really had died and ascended to heaven."

Sam doesn't have to pull over to gather himself but it's a damn near thing.

«»

At the entrance to the grocery store, Sam grabs a cart and holds out his hand. Chuck ducks under his arm, instead, and they start off strolling.

Dean's list is detailed and categorized and divided between four different stores. They're gonna take the groceries back, first, and then go shopping for the rest. He wants to make sure Chuck's knee will be okay - the others can do the rest of the shopping if they hand the list over. But the grocery store is for Sam and Chuck.

It's free-sample day and Chuck ducks to his other side and takes his left hand. He doesn't like having to wave them off, interact with them, or, indeed, take any free food. He still thinks it's creepy, even after their convention shenanigans.

Normally Sam would avoid those with him but he takes several at each station and stacks the little cups to give to Dean because he will shove it all in his face. He was extra-nice to Chuck. He earned snacks.

He grabs an empty display box from a shelf and stacks the little samples inside as they go.

"So, my turn," he says, and tells Chuck what went down with Krissy.

He has the same question at the end of it: "Were they. Holy fuck. Were they, like, _pistol-whipping_ people for their purses or something??"

"Josie didn't say. She very _pointedly_ didn't say. I think it was probably pretty bad. I think Aiden convinced her they didn't have much of a choice."

"Shit." Chuck blows out a breath. "We have to tell Charlie and Dean. Holy crap."

"I know," Sam squeezes his hand. "Josie and I pretty much agreed there wasn't much of a way to support them without making them feel boxed in, but I still feel like we failed them. Like we didn't teach them to do the non-hunting half of things."

Chuck shakes his head and frowns. "Part of that is that they could have asked. Josie did math tutoring online to help bring in money. I know about it, she told me about it. But Krissy and Aiden didn't have to resort to-" he stops himself and grabs something off the shelf to read the label. "Whoever was inside of Aiden wouldn't have taken 'tutoring' for an answer," he amends. "We're probably lucky he didn't just turn her out."

Sam fucking hates thinking about that.

He hopes Krissy was too feisty to even put up with those kinds of suggestions.

Sam switches to different topics as they move down the aisles and continue on to different shops. He wants this trip to be restful and normal for Chuck in whatever ways possible.

But Chuck does get excited when he can read a recipe card at the specialty market that's in Hebrew.

«»

Dean greedily unpacks the groceries as they bring everything in.

Until Sam presents him with freebies.

Then he picks at the little cups and watches Sam and Chuck make three trips back from the garage.

It's Sam's own fault for not waiting. But now he's hesitating and looking for a way to further soften the blow.

"Hey we might need a few more things. Josie said Alex is coming down to stay for a while," Dean clearly tries not to buzz a little with excitement.

"Uh. Awesome, great," Sam nods.

Chuck frowns up at him and grabs his hand. He presses forward through the bind and Sam sees an image of Charlie. When he lets go, Sam assumes it's to go get her.

Oh boy. Okay.

Sam unpacks the last of the stuff for the cabinets.

"What's up?" Dean asks low, twigging to his hesitation.

"We're, uh. We need to talk to you and Charlie."

Dean's chewing slows. "Thanks, that sounds ominous."

"Yeah. Well. You're not gonna be happy."

"Where are you when there's good news, lately? You're never my sunshiny little brat anymore."

Sam slumps; he can't help it.

"I." Dean sighs. "I didn't mean that. I just can't wait until you're all blissful heart-eyes again. We gotta get you back up into a vitamin-D-rich environment. You're just not made for hobbit holes."

He snorts. "Well, they're for hobbit-sized people, for one," he points out.

Dean shrugs and keeps eating.

"Oh, snacks!"

Chuck trails Charlie in as she bee-lines to the free samples and starts picking from the ones Dean slides over.

"So what's the bad news?" he prompts.

"Bad news," Charlie grumps. "More of it??"

They four settle in at the table and Chuck puts a hand on his back and drops the bomb himself.

It looks like the snacks are quickly turning their stomachs sour.

"Oh my god," Charlie says, numb. "I'm so lucky I'm getting a parenting test-run before I ever have a chance to ruin children of my own."

Dean, on the other hand, is just mad. "Do we know how many people they hurt?"

Sam can only shrug and shake his head.

"Ballpark? Not even?"

"Josie seemed to imply they were able to live pretty high on the hog," he cringes.

A breath rattles out of Charlie and she drops her head into her hands.

"You gotta figure Krissy wouldn't have done it if the demon didn't-"

"No. Hell no. Krissy doesn't do shit just _for boys_. She made her own damn decisions, no mistake," Dean declares.

"Do we have to say, 'Get your ass in here, young lady'?" Charlie asks at the tabletop.

"It's not a 'we' thing," Chuck says gently. "If she thinks Dean's trying to parent her, she'll be outta here."

Sam agrees, "It's gotta be you," he pats the top of her head.

"Ugh. Can I at least keep Chuck for the guilt factor? No one would mistake him for a parent."

The flare of annoyance that vibes at him in his head tells him he should say a definitive no, but Chuck sighs and straightens and.

Agrees.

Dean has to stomp around for a while still. That, of course, causes a Disturbance in the Force and Cas appears, already looking like he's gonna kick their asses for disappointing Dean.

Cas tries to soothe him before he even knows what's going on and then Charlie spills the beans and... they've gotta give the kitchen some clearance as Castiel's confusion and hurt mix with Dean's outrage.

Sam pushes Chuck back into their room.

"You don't have to play bad cop for Charlie," he's gotta make that clear right off the bat.

Chuck winces and opens his mouth and can't seem to settle on anything to say. He sits on the bed and holds his hands out and closes his eyes.

Sam comes to touch him, to kneel between his knees. He closes his eyes and goes to Chuck's hallway. It's getting easier and he's still relieved about that. Kinda surprised that the practice is working so well.

But that's the point. He's really drilling himself on it. Breaks it down whenever they're done and repeats exactly what has worked previously.

Copy/pasting the feeling is how Chuck phrased it. That really is how it works.

He thinks of the hall and he can find it and there Chuck is, ankle-deep in pages again.

Sam grips his hands tighter and blindly kisses at them. "You need to write some of these words down. You want a notebook or you wanna go set up our computers?"

"I wanna nap," he almost whines. But the words are too thick in the hallway right now. Chuck might just wake up more unstable.

"You have to do at least some writing or you gotta talk to Cas."

He grumbles but blinks his eyes open and lets Sam nuzzle into him. He lets go of Chuck's hands, holds his thighs and leans into him. Chuck strokes his hair after a while. "I don't want to talk to Krissy with Charlie," he admits, talking just a little slower than normal, trying to keep everything lined up in one language.

"And you don't have to."

"Family," Chuck says.

"Yeah. I know." A growing part of this is knowing what Chuck means without him having to say it or show it to him. Chuck's still pretty wrung out from having to deal with the waves of memory overflow and too-bright knowledge and whatever else leaked into the hall. Today he's almost made it to mid-afternoon, which is a huge improvement. But after he writes some of the words out of his system, and definitely after talking with Charlie and Krissy, he's going to have to crash before dinner.

It's so sad. Sam wants his words back. He pushes closer and holds his hips. Makes Chuck hold him right back.

It makes Sam have to work on his patience. Lately, when he shows up alone to hang out with the others, he gets sad little sympathetic looks and that bugs him. It's hard to hide how bummed he is. And it's not Chuck's fault - he doesn't want him to think it is. He just. He wants to go back to normal.

He's not alone. Chuck isn't leaving him alone. They're working on it and it will get better. It's just hard right now. He's grown into their life together, been sticking to Chuck day in and day out. And he's not sick of it - it just feels comfortable. The same way he never really managed to grow sick of life in the car. He just found a way to be comfortable there.

Chuck's better than life on the road. Before they were even engaged, Sam knew there was gonna be a house attached to this. At least a place of their own. He'd thought about it for a while, and then Jody told them about the property and things just took shape. Somewhere to roam the rooms barefoot and dig in and make his own. Wear dips into the seats and find the right spot in the mattress.

And he has so many of those spots, already, just on his lover's body. So many ways they fit so it feels extra good. Better than comfortable - _natural_.

He pulls back a little and covers Chuck's ears and tugs him to rest for a moment. "My actual, literal hermit crab. We'll get Cas his wings back so we can go home and you can heal in your shell. I'll make it so safe and quiet for you. I'll learn Spanish with you or Chinese or whatever you want. We'll be able to talk out loud so the tide rolls back on its own. So the words don't overwhelm you. It won't be like this forever, I swear. I'm fixing the bind. It will be better than it ever was."

Chuck shivers and sighs. Nods.

"I'm sorry the bunker is gonna have another person in it. I'm sorry," he repeats.

Chuck whines small and pathetic.

It makes him wanna lock everyone out and build a pillow fort around him.

But Chuck can sleep later. After. He sincerely needs to drain some words out of his brain.

They eventually set up in the library, next to Charlie's computer that's still trying to scan the whole digital collection for Cas's missing pages.

Chuck gets through writing an article and slumps.

"Coffee?"

"Coffee."

Sam goes to make more.

Charlie is still planted in the same spot in the kitchen. She's alone but on a different computer, doing her dark-web thing so she's able to use video chat, Donna on one half of the screen, Jody on the other.

"Well," Jody's saying, "we'll be there after breakfast. Just sit on it and hold off."

"This is such an ambush," Charlie laments.

"Is that Sam?" Donna pipes up. "Hey, Sam!"

He turns to smile and nod back at her super-enthusiastic wave.

"Krissy's not floating around there, is she?" Jody asks, wary.

"Cas has his radar on. He'll let us know if she leaves her room. She's been hiding from most of us."

"And how is Chuck?" Jody asks.

Charlie turns around to him, so Sam closes the lid on the machine and hits the button. Comes to plop his head on her shoulder.

"Dealing. Thanks for asking. He's tired a lot. His brain's pretty scrambled. It was sort of a possession thing," he says to Donna's confused look. "Extra mean religious stuff. But we're working on it."

"Now he has to deal with an invading force," Jody's heard about Chuck's hermit tendencies. "Poor guy. Place is gonna be packed."

"Didn't know it was so bad. He sounded like a trooper on the phone. Should I bring him goodies or something?" Donna asks.

Sam grins. "Not unless you've got any foreign language comic books lying around."

They look at him like that's a really weird request - and. Well. It is.

"Nevermind," he waves, repeats: "Weird religious stuff. So, what, we're seeing you all tomorrow?"

"Yeppers!" Donna chirps.

Jody squints at her screen. "We've been informed of _a certain situation_."

"We could seriously use the help," he nods, pats Charlie on the back and lets her finish the call.

He leaves to let the coffee brew, returns to the library, pulls Chuck's chair out and stands between him and the table. "No intervention tonight. The house is gonna get crowded tomorrow. You wanna caffeinate or you want me to take you to bed?"

Chuck slumps again. Holds his arms up, and Sam dips to lift him.

"I'm abandoning you again. I'm sorry. I'm so tired. I'm _so_ tired."

He rubs Chuck's back one-handed while he carries him to the room. "Can I do something for you? When we had you in a coma, I needed you back so bad I had Cas wake you up before he really should have. I thought I could do all the fixing myself, but maybe I was wrong." He sets Chuck down to lock the door and take his clothes as he undresses. "Can I have Cas come in and work on your head for a couple more hours?"

Chuck stands there frowning. It makes Sam wanna pet his hair back so he does. He considers Sam. "You think maybe I won't be such a drowsy loser if Cas works on me again? I don't want you to think I don't trust you with our bind. I just. I'm so fucking tired. And I hate it because it makes me leave you alone." He hangs onto Sam by his forearms. He really is dead on his feet. Maybe if they didn't go shopping after just getting into town. "When I leave you alone you get so fucking down. I just want to be bonkers with you again. I just want to be our stupid selves."

He leans in and kisses Chuck. "Gimme permission to let Cas in. You're right: I don't like being left alone. I love you so much. I don't think we could work on the bind faster without scrambling your eggs. And the house is gonna be full tomorrow. Not just Alex, but Jody and Donna, too. They're gonna help Krissy without you playing bad cop. So, let's get you a little better, we'll hide out in the dungeons, then find Cas's wings, okay? We'll try and stay away from the chaos and just work the case. But I think Cas can lay some magic on you while the rest of us are at dinner. You'll be passed out and he'll be able to creep in and check on your wall and make sure you're healing up right and maybe he'll help you file some of the words away."

"Only if you make out with me first. I haven't had the energy to touch you in days and I'm worried what happens if I don't touch you enough. Will you remember how much I love you, anyway?"

Fuck yes. How could he forget? He was terrified of that when he thought Chuck was dying. Scared that things wouldn't be the same or that their touches or their words would change or even that he'd lose all their love to the grief. From here? He can't remember what that fear was like. He's just planning never to lose his husband. Never ever. "Yeah. Always, sweetheart."

They speak their romantic nonsense for a half hour, kissing and being close and talking in whispers about their bathtub. He wraps Chuck tight in the 'shell' of the sheets and reminds him that Cas will be coming around.

"Yeah," Chuck sighs. "Eat dinner, first, don't let dinner go cold," he babbles.

Sam smiles and prompts him back with rambling until there's nothing in response but a snore.

«»

Cas stays in Sam & Chuck's dorm, working, until Sam begs off early for the night. When he sees Chuck lying still with Cas concentrating, a hand on his forehead, like when he had been in a coma, Sam is glad he didn't eat so much at dinner. It reminds him of the motel, right after, when Chuck was growing his blood back and Sam was still sniffling, still walking by to touch him and check he wasn't so pale because he was dead. He remembers his own hands washing the blood from Chuck's angel blade. He remembers the hole in Chuck's shirt.

Sam sits and holds Chuck's hand without disturbing Cas and, after a while, Cas blinks back to the room and says, "Alright, Sam," and walks him through some exercises. They don't bother Chuck as he's huddled in his hall watching dreams on pages of books. Cas just makes Sam practice getting around. He shows him what kind of damage to look for in the wall and what the slow beginnings of the healing look like.

It's late, late at night, now. Castiel's hand is almost stiff when he lets go of Sam's wrist, and the other's been planted on Chuck's head for nearly six hours.

"I'm pleased to see how much progress you've made," Cas says, when they step out of the room.

Sam saw what the healing looked like. It was so incredibly little he was disappointed by it, but Cas had really seemed thrilled to see so much.

"I still feel like I'm completely winging it. I'm fumbling all of this. It's like..." he shrugs "90% guesswork. The only thing I know for sure is what you've dragged me in and shown me. You showed me the hall, so I know what it looks like. That's the only reason I've been able to find it again."

Cas pulls the door shut further and goes to lean against the far wall. "You're very human. So the only thing you think that you're able to fully realize and understand is that ten-percent -- the hall, the way the doors look, the way the grace fell through, the way Chuck looks as an image you know miniaturized in his head. But what you're not understanding is that it's all very much fabricated and projected by you. Even the parts that you think belong to Chuck - the hall? Your own brain is filling in many of the gaps. As you both build together, these projections will become easier to access, have more in common, and be more solid each time you see them. You show up at a different spot in the hall each time you see it?"

Sam shrugs, "Yeah." It's not like the doors are labeled, but he knows he's next to a different one every time he's there. The cracks in the wall are never the same. He just keeps showing up at random points in that endless corridor.

"It's just like any other place. The more you visit, the more you'll become familiar with things. You'll know that, though the doors look the same and all feel different, that you could locate one simply by walking left or right and reaching out for a handle. Don't stay tied to the human laws of physics if you can. It helps to have some stability - walls and floors and ceilings and one place to walk, for example - but project what you need to find. Project what _Chuck_ needs help finding. If you can't find a..." Cas searches for words. "A filing cabinet? To store the words on the pieces of paper? Turn Chuck around and direct him to one and you'll find one. The memories never spilled out of Chuck because he was inattentive to the doors. I found that very confusing at first. He insists on touching these doors to make certain that they stay closed, but they would arbitrarily 'open' and he would drown in what was contained behind them. However, he's never been inside one of those rooms. Never walked into it and packed the contents into a trunk and packed the trunk in a safe and locked it and walked away. He could throw a wall up in front of a door. It just depends what you encourage each other to find there."

Sam blinks a bit because he's tired and he's human and - not that it's hard to imagine - but he can picture himself _forcing_ them both to have imagination like that. It feels wrong to force anything on Chuck. Just bully him into thinking 'this is the way your mind works.'

Then again? They both come up with personalities out of thin air. They make stories and overblow their adventures and get stupidly indulgent and romantic. Maybe they do have enough imagination to pull this off.

But, when put that way, it suddenly seems really pathetic that his end of this thing is just... a motel room.

"What's wrong?" Cas asks.

He's pouting. "I'm still not letting go enough. When Chuck comes to find me it's just. I'm just in this one room. I'm in one room, some random motel. Some amalgamation of a dozen rooms I've lived in for a week at a time."

Cas shrugs. "What's in the bathroom?"

"The bathroom??"

"Have you opened the door to look? Or the closet. Or the connecting door. There might be another room on the other side of it or there might be a field. There might be a road."

Sam suddenly remembers. Remembers Dean finding a road in a closet. Remembers finding a road on a postcard.

It's like heaven-physics.

"So. So... I could, in theory, open a door in Chuck's hall and find our room here - our dorm room," he thumbs behind him.

Cas smiles. "Not just theory. Decide that it's true."

Oh. Okay. Sam sighs. "Yeah. So Chuck said a long time ago that you would have some idea of how to help us work this thing, even if it's not like prayer. Chuck told me and told me and I didn't listen hard enough."

Cas squints off. "I've noticed that Chuck says things offhandedly that come to mean something a day later. I think that's what happens when intuition is aided by a rambling mouth and stifled by self-doubt." He nods. Looks to Sam. "You should help each other scatter those doubts. They're not doing you much good. They keep Chuck from intuiting the truth and they keep you from trusting yourself."

Sam feels like he can sympathize with Chuck's exhaustion and drowning all of a sudden.

He wants Chuck to hug his head in his sleep.  
So he goes with that feeling.

"Thanks, Cas. Seriously."

"And I thank you both for leading the effort to help me restore my wings. Lately I can't stop thinking about it. I can't wait to feel less ragged and worn. I mean. I hope it works. Because I'm looking forward to it. So. Thank you."

Sam's instincts tell him to smile. To trust Charlie's work. Sam's instincts tell him that somewhere in this bunker, in some book or one of Bobby's massive stacks of photocopies - somewhere close, is what they're looking for. They'll be able to help Cas feel complete and then they can watch Dean fumble with planning a big, cheesy wedding.

He holds his arms out. "You know what's coming."

Cas rolls his eyes but gives a proper hug, just like he was taught.

«»

In the morning, after the first half-cup of coffee, it's time for them to exercise. Sam wants to get into a habit, here.

So he holds Chuck close and does his best to trust what Cas told him and he walks Chuck through what he learned last night. Shows him that they're getting better and tries to get him to recall heaven-physics.

Chuck's got the same, human reservations as Sam. But practice will help. They'll keep practicing.

At breakfast, Krissy joins the whole family. She keeps a little aloof from Sam, but otherwise, no one lets on that anything is up. No one hints that an ambush is coming (though, really, they don't know what kind of ambush is coming - Jody had to sleep on her plot).

Sam is not looking forward to the family explosions and Dean knows it. He tells Sam and Chuck to go ahead and take Charlie's computer to the basement while they dig through the books by hand and the program keeps searching for Castiel's spell.

Donna, Jody, and Alex arrive just as Sam is ducking downstairs with the last of the equipment. They're able to hide and work down there for a few hours. Sam puts himself in charge of coffee runs and he hears things getting more tense as the morning progresses. When they head up for lunch there's a full-on yelling match going on in the main room, so he hastily turns Chuck around and goes to brave it himself.

He really doesn't want to. But they have food-related _needs_. It's too hard to get through the area to the dorms or the kitchen without encountering the noise and he'll be damned if he risks subjecting Chuck to the yelling.

So he straightens his spine and gets ready for it. Tries to just pass quietly, but-

Krissy's laugh is bitter when he shows his face. "You. You fucking prick. Not enough to kill my boyfriend, you-"

Cas is the one who steps in front of her and turns her away. Dean looks like he's been forcibly sat in his chair by Cas already. Jody and Charlie have a casual, imperious finality about them. Sam has seen that same look on mothers when he'd visit a friend's house and see his buddies get in trouble for being out past curfew or hiding an F on their report card. True that he never got to hang out with them long enough to really absorb "mom" mannerisms, but there's an immovable disappointment to it that he got plenty of from Dean. And the fake, pasted-on version that Dad would sport sometimes.

Donna comes back into the room with her bag. And from her bag she pulls a giant file, hole-punched at the top and neatly clamped into place on either side. She drops it on the table with an ominous thunk and unfolds it.

And starts reading aloud.

She begins with the report of an assault in the town where--

Well. Where Chuck almost died. Where their last big hunt was.

And she continues reading. Following accounts of similar assaults to different towns. The dates go backwards.

From the way Krissy starts losing her edges, Sam knows Donna hit the right button.

"$617 in damages, $430 missing, the victim received eighteen stitches." Donna just keeps going. Numbers and numbers and numbers. $1678 in damages, $878 stolen, four days in the hospital. Nine weeks in a cast, twelve staples, lacerations to the scalp, permanent damage to the right cornea, on and on and on.

Josie finally stops hovering on the sidelines. Takes a seat at the table and a deep breath.  
Her conscience is clearing.

Chuck encouraged Claire to keep a journal of her cases. Claire encouraged Krissy. Krissy encouraged Aiden. Josie picked it up from them. She must have given Jody and Donna the list of places they've been. And they must have looked up the open assault cases in each town and connected those they could to Josie's recollections of each time Krissy and Aiden made a haul or were suddenly flush with cash.

The dots are connecting and Krissy's beginning to understand that, to the two cops at the table, she looks like she ought to be brought up on charges in multiple states.

She and Aiden didn't just take stuff. They left people bleeding. They may not have known how bad, but the money they took at that time wasn't all they took from those people.

Medical bills stack up. A bunch of civilians are permanently damaged from what was done to them.

They're thankful that Krissy wasn't just a victim of the demon's schemes. This is gonna be easier to put behind her than being throttled and abused by him.

It's gonna sit on her soul forever, though.

Bone fractures, missing teeth, traumatized children. Donna's list goes on. She has to steady herself, shake her head, take a deep breath sometimes before flipping to the next page, try not to let her anger or horror show, reading from reports until Krissy slumps into a chair, too.

It doesn't make Sam feel righteous. It doesn't make him feel good.

However that demon managed to convince Krissy that this was the only way for them, to live? That falls on this family as a whole. Maybe they weren't ready to look out for all these kids.

Or maybe they're just gonna do it better from now on.

Sam passes through without any more notice from the rest of the room.  
Donna keeps reading aloud.

«»

They pause work so he can check on Chuck's head, but they don't do anything more strenuous than lift books and practice finding each other though the bind. Chuck's not too worn out by dinner time and they're about to head upstairs when the computer fucking _goes off_ at them.

Flashing and pings and it's found six pages of text that match. Three pages that they already have and three that they were missing.

"Holy fuck," Chuck pushes at him. "Get Dean, I'll start reading."

"You sure you can on your own?"

Chuck opens the first PDF and takes a breath. "I'll just throw down some notes. Come back and help me."

"Don't twist yourself up," he orders as he goes to sprint up the stairs.

Things are still tense up here but at least conversation has moved on.

Sam pokes around the rooms until he finds Dean and Donna in the kitchen.

He gives his brother a significant look.

Dean licks something off his thumb and hands the spoon he was using over to Donna. "Keep stirring." He nods at Sam, _What's up?_

"Charlie's program found the pages. Ready?"

"Shit," he looks around, suddenly scrambling, tosses the dishcloth from his shoulder to the table. "Go find him, I'll come down."

Sam steps back into the hall and calls out, "Castiel?" then just heads to the main room.

Cas comes up from the dorms, curious.

"Found it," Sam grins.

Claire follows Cas out, wondering what he was chasing up. Sam just heads back downstairs.

Chuck's folded on the floor with the laptop on the ground in front of him, scrawling fast on a notepad balanced on his knee. "It's not gonna be that out of the ordinary, actually," he pushes his glasses up. "I mean, he really just needs to go hunt some more."

"What do you mean?" Sam bends down to pick everything up and move it to a table, helps Chuck stand and lets him snap his notebook back as soon as he's settled in a chair.

"Help me read this sentence," Chuck says.

So they look at the text and they try to remember it and they sink into the bind so Chuck can translate it properly.

"See?" Chuck says, when they blink back. "Dean's just gotta do good deeds while he's got the trace of grace in him. He's gotta be blessed by good works or whatever."

Cas's arrival interrupts them. "It's easier for me to read," he turns the laptop away, an unspoken reprimand in his narrowed eyes. He doesn't want Chuck to hurt himself after the work they did last night.

Everyone comes down. They all cram into the little room while Charlie runs a translation program that backs up what Chuck worked out and what Cas is reading aloud.

Claire breaks it down in her succinct style: "So, after Cas leaves the trace of grace behind, Dean has to perform a miracle every day for two weeks? Isn't that some saint shit? I mean, people get canonized that way, right?" She searches their faces.

Chuck waivers and the room is crowded so he has to look down at his notebook while he speaks to them, trying not to stutter under the scrutiny. "Miraculous salvation, I mean, in this sense, I think we can just interpret it to mean the same thing he does all the time, anyway. Just. In short order."

"So fourteen solved cases in fourteen days or he has to start over?" Jody asks. "Wait, I saw this movie. It was called _Ocean's Twelve_. I mean, that can't be possible, right? Cases take days for you guys."

Dean finally steps up. "No. It's absolutely possible. 

"How??" Josie boggles.

"Hauntings," Dean shrugs. "Flat-out, run-of-the-mill hauntings. I need fourteen of them? Fine. Let's find like 20 old legends in some spook-ass town and I'll bang out 14 in 14 days with six alternates."

Sam really likes that idea. "We do the research and legwork ahead of time. Send the kids forward first to investigate? And then you follow in to torch the corpses and add a notch to the wall."

Dean smirks and points at him. "Exactly. Hunting power run."

There's some tentative chatter about the plan around the room. Sam knows a couple cities he might start off in.

There's a nervy kinda shifting from the bind. Sam's standing behind Chuck's chair. He curves over and looks at him upside-down.

"Dumb idea?" Chuck says real low. "He could. Um. Start off at a crossroads. Kill whoever shows up. Do it 'til they stop sending suckers."

Sam can see a couple issues with that. "I don't think we wanna let Crowley get wind so early. And anyway they don't really answer anymore if they know it's us. They know it's a guaranteed ganking."

"Oh, okay," Chuck waves it off real quick.

But Sam feels his brother come to hover close.

"You had a shortcut in mind?" he asks Chuck.

"Nah, 's nothing," he waves again.

Dean looks to him to confirm.

"Crossroads," Sam shrugs.

Dean actually considers it. "If one of the kids summoned it while I sat in the car and stood by, that might work. We can conserve those as filler-kills if it's a couple minutes to midnight and I haven't made a hit yet."

"That's an idea," Sam agrees. "I think I wanna break this down first. Make sure we didn't miss any loopholes."

Dean nods. "A port town or a Colonial town," he decides.

"Or both," Sam shrugs. "Coast of Virginia. Boston. St. Augustine-"

"Florida," Chuck chimes in from below him as a definite NO.

"- Tampa-"

"Florida!!" he glares up this time.

"Fucking... Baton Rouge-"

"Louisiana!!" he objects.

"Goddamnit. Austin would work. D.C. wouldn't work. New York would be a clusterfuck. Providence, blah. Salem," Sam rattles off.

"Nooo!" Dean objects, wide-eyed. "No witches."

"Ugh. Roanoke."

"Are you trying to kill him in 14 days, or..."

Sam reaches down and covers Chuck's mouth.

"Savannah, Charleston, Dover-"

Chuck pries his hand off, "Atlantic City!!"

"Yes!" Dean agrees with a snap.

Sam rolls his eyes, "Annapolis, Portland - east coast not west coast - New Bern, Myrtle Beach," he shrugs.

"Atlantic City," Dean repeats. "Alright weirdos and Winchesters," he calls over all of them. "Dinner time. You contribute or you don't eat. Everybody back upstairs. We got our answer, we'll brainstorm after we're stuffed and I've got you all immobile at the table." He starts divvying out tasks. Assigns Donna and Krissy to keep working with him. Charlie's on the mac and cheese. Cas is gonna heat up the biscuits just like he was taught. Alex and Josie are cleaning off the great table and setting it. He knows better than to tell Jody what to do. Sam is in charge of drinks. Chuck is conspicuously absent from his directions as they all file out. Dean stays behind with Sam and Chuck.

"I don't need to sleep yet," Chuck shrugs under Sam's hold. "I promise I'm good. Cas really helped yesterday."

It must be true. He doesn't look nearly as worn out.

"You sure?" Dean presses.

Chuck shrugs again.

Dean looks to Sam. "He can help with something," Sam agrees.

"Alright. Cas doesn't need Claire's help with the damn biscuits. You're gonna run out with Claire for ice cream and two boxes of brownie mix. Got it?"

"But if he's going to the grocery store-" Sam starts to protest but Dean cuts him off.

"Claire needs to pick out the ice cream with Chuck," Dean says with a significant look. And pulls out the Impala's keys. Hands them to Chuck. Leaves.

They watch him go and then Chuck blinks up at him. "Guess I'll get my shoes."

Sam soothes a hand over the back of his neck. "Drive careful, okay? Find out what's up with Flipper."

Chuck nods. "Take the stuff up?"

"Yeah, no problem," he kisses Chuck's head. "Go ahead, Sweetheart."

Dean handed his keys over. There's no more pointed way of saying he needs help with Claire. Chuck will figure it out though. He can do this.

Sam saves copies of the scans everywhere and prints them out. Takes Chuck's notebook and resets the computer to continue scanning, just in case.

Dinner is amazing. The packed house is wonderful. Dean looks happier than Sam's seen in... too long. Just too long. The brownie smell stars rolling through the house as they finish up and some of them look stuffed but the rest are ready for more, like Sam is, for the first time in weeks. Alex and Claire get up to get dessert ready and Cas busts out the notebook and the print-outs. Starts reading.

Sam leans back and reaches for Chuck's hand. He turns the handle of his mug the other way so he can settle back, hold hands, and keep sipping the hazelnut coffee Jody made to share with him.

"A fortnight," Cas says. "We should choose a town and I'll... inhabit you as soon as we get there and you can take down your first ghost."

"We set up three hunts out," Dean says. "Just keep pushing forward. Any chance you have some vacation time?" he looks to Jody.

"Maybe? Um. What's going on here?"

They spend dinner explaining the situation as Cas reads and writes everything down. Donna has some time off she can take. Maybe three days. And Alex is willing to help as long as it's just ghosts."

Dean looks overjoyed in a really contained way. He makes Cas stop working and eat brownies with them.

Chuck puts his fork down half-way through looking like the exhaustion just sucker-punched him.

Sam is just so happy they've made this much progress. Chuck almost made it the whole, eventful day with him.

Dean brings up Atlantic City again and Charlie starts Googling rampant hauntings on her phone. Sam's totally ready to start planning the hunt. But he needs to take care of his husband, first.

He reaches to palm his head. "Coffee not working?" he whispers.

"Decaf," Chuck sniffs. "I think I'm gonna-"

"I know. Okay. Let's put you to bed. I wanna help with the hunt. Then I'll come back to you."

Chuck nods and scoots out and Sam follows him to the dorms, conversation fading behind them. It goes silent once he closes the door and locks it.

"Tell me about Claire before you pass out."

Chuck yawns. "She just doesn't know how to feel. She feels like a bad guy because she hated Aiden but she didn't want him to die. At the same time she wants me alive and she doesn't think she hurts as much as she's supposed to that the demon killed Aiden. She sees Krissy hurting and can't look her in the eyes. But now that she knows what Krissy was up to-- like. She doesn't wanna not be her friend. But she's angry Krissy was so thoughtless about the people they robbed. She just doesn't always feel like families or friends are for her. She feels fucked up."

Sam gets him dressed for bed and tucked in. Sits at his side when he lays down. "You did good listening."

"I wish I'd had more answers."

"It's enough to listen sometimes, crab. She looked fine at dinner."

"I may have half-convinced her of the merits of sticking with neutral-party status. If she needs to talk shit about Krissy and Aiden, better that she does it hanging out with you and me than to give the impression to her friends that she's taken a side. So for now she's just gonna listen. And when she has to vent about it, she'll talk to us. And Cas. She feels like everybody else is too biased. Which I think is funny. Because I'm the one he murdered."

Despite the phrasing, Sam has to laugh a little. "It's good that you can still seem objective to everyone after that. You're doin' good, Chuck."

"So are you," he yawns. "Whatever you and Cas did yesterday? Feels pretty good. I just. I'm still just tired."

Sam presses him down and tugs the sheets all around him. "Love you. I'm so fucking relieved we got like another four hours out of you today. I think we're both doing pretty good work. Sleep, okay?"

"I promise I'll get back to normal, Sam. I promise I won't always be abandoning you," he says, quiet and insistent.

"Hey, it's okay. This is reality. I don't need us to be who we were last month, alright? We both grow up in this marriage. Things change and the change happens to both of us and that's how it's supposed to work. You're not alone. And I don't feel alone. I know you're kicking ass and fighting your own head to stay with me. I know you wouldn't leave me alone. I'm okay. We can't rush this. Especially not with the way Jody's been glaring at me ever since she got here," he laughs to admit.

Chuck doesn't join him in laughing. "She saw her zombified son kill her husband."

"I know. I know. I'm kind of worried she's gonna smack me when I go back out there. I let you get hurt so bad-"

"You didn't."

"Chuck," he reaches down to touch him. Press their heads together. "I know you told me it doesn't matter. I know, I do. But I didn't say 'I love you' and the next time I saw you, you were bleeding out into the grass. You still hurt and, to be honest, it still hurts that I had to watch that. I know what happened to Jody. And I feel guilty as hell that no one was there to save her husband. I'm the one who had to put her son down. I would let her slap me upside the head right now. I don't wanna learn her lesson the hard way. I would do anything to serve as a reminder that I never wanna risk you that way again. I am _so_ head-over-heels for you. When you don't rest and get better and when you blame yourself for leaving me alone, it only draws the damn hurt out that much further. Please take the time you need to get better, Sweetheart. Please. Sleep all you need and never shut up. Always tell me where you are and what you need and how you feel and tell me you love me. I can't live without that anymore. I feel empty without that anymore. I love you."

"I love you, too. Please stop thinking that way, okay? I love you. Get better with me. Feel better," Chuck demands.

"Okay. Okay." He kisses Chuck for a while. "I'll be here with you in a couple more hours."

"Love you," Chuck repeats in earnest.

"Love you, too," Sam says, because he's learned that he'll never ever hear that enough.

«»

Salem is a non-starter with Dean.

Miami, Key West, and St. Augustine are all too Floridian.

New Orleans is out of the question. People don't hunt there. People _commune_ there. Monsters of all kinds consider it more of a refuge and hunts there are rare and personal. The city is a mess of politics and witches and factions and... just... no.

No one wants to return to the Carolinas after this, though there are plenty of haunted confederate towns and places washed out by storms.

They're between Chicago and Galveston.

(Almost literally.)

Dean is in favor of hunting more gangsters. Jody rolls her eyes.

Though the dead in Galveston have had longer to steep in their loss and anger, it seems like a better idea. There's a variety of characters there from a variety of disasters. And they don't get stalked a lot. Hunters don't really bother with Galveston.

Kicking the hornet's nest in a town that doesn't have a high incidence of supernatural assaults could have long-term consequences. Unfortunately it's their best bet to sneak up on a very haunted place and rattle some action out of it in a short period of time.

The town's a little more active than others because some damn landowners with a lot of free time on their hands wanted to talk to spirits. Séances, held long ago, set up connections that haven't fallen there and, while people get the shit spooked out of them, there isn't a lot of harassment attached to that. Not so much of the ghosts murdering people as the ghosts just giving them the heebs.

"You're saying we change that," Charlie looks concerned at the idea. "We turn the _spooky_ into the _scary?_ "

Dean looks to him. Sam wavers. But nods. "It would be an okay start. Um. Begin with Menard House, some of the cemeteries. Have the kids go in first and basically... Ouija up some spirits?"

"It's like poking 'em with a stick sometimes. Other times it takes a little more," Dean fills in.

"Yeah, so literally google 'hauntings in Galveston' and hit up the most popular places that still look like museums. You don't go to the most well-advertised, hyped-up ones because half the activity is fabricated. You don't go to the emptiest places because they're _too_ haunted, possibly dangerous. We're gonna get some good hits at the mid-grade tourist spots because they're too full of history to interest young people, and they're haunted enough to just give the majority of people bad vibes," Sam explains. "That combination should make them legitimate plus light on foot traffic. They'll have short business hours and it will be easier to get the place to ourselves for a night.”

"Okay, well," Donna looks kind of doubtful. "That sounds like the kinda thing that would be great for capping ten, um, ghosts? All in one night. But if Dean has to do one a day?"

"Well. We can go for one site per day. Clear fourteen pieces of land complete. Wouldn't really be saving the world if I just did one ghost at a time," Dean grins, happily biting off more than he can chew.

Sam rolls his eyes. Thankfully the Voice of Reason is doing the same at Dean's other side. "You won't be able to completely clear fourteen sites in fourteen days," Cas says.

"I will with an entire team around me! Just let me carry the matches and as soon as we dig some bastards up, it's fighting time and I just. Take the credit," he shrugs. "By frying them."

"Digging up graves takes hours," Jody blinks, unimpressed.

Josie clears her throat like she thinks it's gonna be hard to get the floor. But it's not. They're looking for ideas here. "My uncle rents equipment all the time. It's not hard to rent an excavator. Just say it's for... building a pool. Or a contract landscaping job. It could speed things up. We keep it for 14 days and return it when we're done."

"Yeah, but getting your rented excavator into a cemetery without freaking out the locals?" Jody challenges. "You ever try to get a body exhumed? Families are up in arms, the township protests, people picket the place."

"We wouldn't be doing it legally," Krissy almost laughs. Then seems to realize what she just said. And seems to realize she's had enough of flaunting her endeavors in front of cops. So she retreats, folding her arms.

"She's right," Sam presses, just to keep her in the discussion. "It wouldn't be legal anyway. And it would be in the dead of night. Easiest to come up against spirits at night, in the first place. With Dean posing as a fed, it keeps the locals out of our business, too."

"Yeah, for a few days, maybe," Donna points out. "Staying in the same place for two weeks? Playing your little federal con for that long might be pushing it bub," she doesn't entirely approve of them always flashing their fake IDs around.

"There are old ships and abandoned areas. We won't always have to be in the town proper," Dean shrugs. "We won't always have to fake our authority to get in."

That's a good point. "Right, so. Start off outside the city limits. Start with the outlying cemeteries and whatever. Even the old pirate wreck sites. Then move into the city. If you have to pack up and go to another town, just follow the path of the Galveston Hurricane inland and... worse comes worse? San Antonio. It's - what? Four hours out?"

Dean nods. "Little more violent there, but," he shrugs again.

"Why would it be more violent there?" Claire asks.

"Huge battleground," Jody jumps in. "The Alamo's there."

"Yeah," Sam nods. "And there's something up with a lot of the hotels. Hunters get wind of San Antonio all the time. You've got the La Llorona legend and you can always."

He looks to Dean.

"Kick up a chupacabra from someplace."

Dean shifts and avoids his eyes. "Let it go, man."

"Basically it was the Wild West without being too wild for our purposes. A bunch of guys offed their prostitutes in brothels, there were gunfights, and a mess of battles went down and, I mean, there's psychos in every city," Sam nods. "I really think this will work."

"Alright. How do we move forward, then? How do we plan for this?" Cas asks.

"Well. First of all you're gonna need a big enough crew, Mr. Ocean," Jody says. "I guess I can take a couple extra days off. I'm in."

Dean's eyes go wide.

Jody only shakes her head and looks to the kids and they get it. Family.

Obviously Dean finds that pretty thrilling. He goes to grab some old maps and tells Charlie to bust out the computers.

They stay up late pinpointing where they want to start and in which direction they'll progress. Alex stayed largely uninvolved, seeming to observe more. So Sam recommends that she be a sort of information hub while they're down there.

Dean drags him with to go get fresh beers for everyone. "Chuck is normally our information hub," he points out.

Sam sighs and drops to lean back against the counter. "Please don't ask me to do this, Dean. He said he wanted to retire. I said we would. We have to. We're done."

Dean looks him up and down, finds the bottle opener and uncaps one of Sam's beers to hand to him.

He twists the neck in his fingers before he takes a pull.

"Alright," Dean says like he doubts it. "You're gonna go where Cas is though. Because-- just in case. I mean. In case it's too much for Chuck to handle. Right? He's still not out of the woods with the stuff overflowing in his head?" Dean makes a cuckoo gesture that Sam doesn't really appreciate. Chuck isn't _crazy_ , he just has a head full of--

Sam sighs. "I was gonna. Yeah. I was gonna ask if you could spare Cas for the first week."

"Sammy. I don't think we can spare anybody at all," and he sounds genuinely apologetic about it. "I mean. I know it's gonna be rough. But I also know that Cas needs his wings back if you're gonna live that far out from us. You won't go home until he can zap out and fix Chuck at a moment's notice."

He knows that, okay? He knows it makes more sense for them to go down to Galveston with the group. But Sam didn't stop back when they should have. He didn't slow down on the hunting when Chuck wanted him to. And that's why they're here in the first place. "How do I cram him in there with us all again? This is busy enough for him," he motions to the bunker and all the space they've got. "Tiring enough. I can't-- Dean. I don't. I mean-"

"You're gonna let me go hog wild for two weeks and you think you'll be able to handle that at a distance?" he challenges with a look like _come on, kid, seriously?_

Which is really, really accurate.

He can't do it. If he's sending Dean on this mission for Cas and for Chuck and for all of them. Then he really should be there.

Fuck. How the hell do you take back your word to your husband? How the hell do you tell him, _I know this got you killed and I said I'd stop, but it was a lie and I knew it_. This was Sam's worst fucking nightmare come true. Almost as soon as Chuck asked to marry him, Sam felt like Chuck's lifespan was being reduced by the day. He wasn't ready. Wasn't ready to watch him die so soon. Then things were going good and Sam had almost convinced himself that he wouldn't be the cause of Chuck's death. He'd called up Dean the morning after Chuck asked and he said _I'm gonna get him killed_. Dean had said _you're not_ and Sam had wanted to believe so bad.

Jody comes to hover at the doorway.

Dean sees her. Doesn't wait for an answer. Slaps Sam on the shoulder and grabs as many beers as he can carry back to the main room.

Jody lets him pass and then steps on into the room.

"You don't have to stay for this."

"I really do. And you're going, too. Even if - Claire tells me? You told Chuck you wouldn't."

Sam closes his eyes. He knew this was coming. She's still death-glaring him. "I know."

"You do. And you just made some big life changes but you didn't think your life was gonna change. You kept the two-door when you knew you needed the minivan."

Well that's.... a really inaccurate way of putting it, especially for them. But it feels no less like she hit her target.

Like, it's really not the same. It's not as if they were _obligated_ by marriage to slow down in any way.

It just. Well. Would have been a good idea. Considering how many times Sam has sliced his veins open for the world. And how much information was already crammed into Chuck's brain, crowding him out. And how Charlie told them to take a back seat. And how they're supposed to be setting the kids up for prime experience.

You know. Instead of abandoning them to the great wilds of the United States.

Jody chose her son. And that wasn't wrong of her. But she knew something was wrong with him when other dead people showed up in town. And she chose her _dead_ son over her _living_ husband and that still sits behind her eyes. Weighs heavy in her heart. She feels like she wanted too much so she ended up with nothing.

"I'm going - coming with? So you can hang back some. We'll start off early with the kids and then Dean does whatever supernatural crap he has to do with Castiel. And then when the fighting starts, you'll have to show up. You two can be a couple days late, and Chuck can still hang back in the motel. But you're going and you know you are."

"Getting Cas all his power back - that power in his wings? It will be to everybody's benefit, Jody. You-"

"I can't fault you for that. For any of it," she nods. "He loves you too much to say it. So I'm gonna say it. Okay?" she drops her arms from the hard cross over her chest. She stands in a family kitchen with all her loss piled on her shoulders and her adoptive family in the rooms behind her - she refuses to let them all help with the weight. She can go from hard to weary in an instant. And she does. "It's time to choose. Dean will come to the point where it's time for him to choose, but he'll have someone powerful to fall back on. You don't. I don't know him-- I don't know _Chuck_ very well. But he's not the... powerful, almighty, extraterrestrial? _Thing_ that piled inside him and took him over. He's a human and he's alive and he's made choices with you. Your brother is gonna keep making other choices without you. He'll have to get real and wake up to his own realities with his angel. Your realities can't grow wings, Sam."

Yes. He knows.  
He's been slapped in the face with that fact a lot lately.

When Chuck talks, he ought to listen.

He will go with Dean. He will hang back unless he's needed. They'll take cover -- good cover. And Sam won't ask for Cas to hang back. He'll only ask that he not take more risks than necessary. Cas has to prioritize helping Dean. Sam just can't bear for him to take too many chances when Chuck is still so weak.

So they have to hunt one more time- okay. Fourteen more times.

But this is it. You know what? There aren't many months left in the year. He can swear to Chuck that this is it for the year. He can swear it and he can mean it.

She comes to snag his ear and shuffle his hair and kiss his head. It's not like she thinks he doesn't know the grief she's carrying. She just never expected so damn much. And sometimes it's hard for her to be surrounded by family and not think of what she's lost. That big miscalculation she made.

Sam stays up for a while. For the planning.

He goes to bed at 1 a.m., knowing the rest of them will be up until 3.

Cas doesn't need to sleep and Dean has never been a school-night kind of motherfucker. They're all staying awake and interested and excited and he feels a growing quiet eating up space in his heart until he climbs into bed and touches. And Chuck, completely unconscious, turns slightly into him and doesn't wake when he's gathered up and held. Sam closes his eyes, seeks out the steady rain of pages, and does the job he maybe wasn't meant for. But that he loves doing most.

«»

He still has to wait for Chuck to wake up in the morning. And wait he does, until it's almost time to meet Charlie for a sunrise run. He finally has to move, shift them, kiss Chuck until he's not just blinking slow, but awake.

And Chuck knows something's up. He couldn't ignore it. Sam's worried about it and he knows Chuck picks up on that kind of thing from the bind if he's been sleeping on it.

"I know," he says.

"I figured," Sam whispers.

"You're not breaking a promise. We're winding down. I reserve the right to be. You know. Completely chicken and totally scared. I know I'm supposed to get back on the horse or whatever, but that doesn't stop me from constantly thinking about it. I mean, I got a hole in my gas tank one time and now I always think in terms of when a car is gonna run out of gas under worst-case conditions and leave me stranded again. That's just always gonna sit there, waiting. And that's nothing on getting a hole punched through your chest, you know?"

"Tank-half-empty."

"Yeah."

"I knew that about you already. I'm a tank-half-full guy. That's why we're with each other. Nothing bad is gonna happen. We're gonna have two weeks full of victories and we're gonna cap it off by getting Cas his wings back. Then we can go home." _Home_ kind of pours out of his throat like it could choke him if it's not released. Like on the leading edge of a sob. His breathing speeds up. "I wanna go home with you. I don't want to put you through this."

"As long as you're in the car with me with the tank on E. Sam, that's pretty obviously better than being stranded by myself. It's okay," he says, reaching up to push Sam's hair off his neck.

"I didn't mean to lie to you."

"It wasn't a lie. This is how we _get_ to fulfill that. This is our last push. Maybe it's the price we gotta pay to Artemis. Maybe she wants her last hunts before she'll let her hunter go."

Sam was still thinking, bitterly, in terms of all that God has demanded of them and taken from them. He was thinking of this as another thing _God_ owes _them_ for putting up with him. Really, though, calling it a tithe to hunting, itself, makes it a little easier to swallow.

"You gonna go exercise?"

"Yeah," Sam kisses him.

Chuck gets his arms under himself and pushes to sit up. "I feel like a dying invalid when you leave me here sleeping. I think I just need to push myself, too. I'll get back up and around. Wake me up when you wake up for the next couple weeks, okay? I'll complain about it when all this is over and go back to sleeping in," he grins.

"I should be forcing you to rest, not facilitating your early exhaustion."

"I can still rest. I can research ghosts. That's not too taxing."

Sam catches Chuck up and drags him in to clutch him close. To _feel him_ close and cherish every fucking breath. His hermit crab hangs on. Skinny-strong arms clinging to him and whole body familiar with the crush.

He never would have felt this again.

Sam wants so badly to be known. He's aware - very aware - that Chuck knows an awful lot about what's going on in his head, has better access and better natural understanding. But the same way Chuck anticipated becoming one of Sam's _habits_ , Sam can't wait for Chuck to be the center of his everything. Supermassive black hole, molten core, nucleus.

It was important to become who he is - it was important to hunt, to save people, to fight off the bad guys - so he could get to Chuck. And Dean will always be important to Sam, always be a part of his life, his very _being_. He will always feel right in Dean's company. He will always be good with the idea of coming back to the bunker to visit and feeling comfortable here.

But this can't be his axis anymore.

Chuck has to be. Home has to be.

Once he's installed Chuck as king of their castle, he just feels like there will be a settling within him. An everyday purpose he can follow from point A to point B and he won't need a fucking GPS or Google Maps or a suspicious report of animal attacks to get there.

He can't go on fighting. It's draining. He leaves dents in the enemy, yes, but leaves chunks of himself behind, too. He's tired of losing his people. Tired of the looming threat, worse than an empty tank in Death Valley. Can't imagine losing Chuck.

And can no longer imagine forcing Chuck to do this without support.

He doesn't want his husband to have to brave their family alone. Doesn't want him to have to face the din of the world without someone to protect him from it. Neither of them are allowed to die.

"Damn, I'm maudlin this morning."

Chuck laughs into his shoulder. "That's okay. Go run in the sun. It will be nice not to be in the hole for a while. Love you."

"Love you, too."

"Undress so I can, like, stare at you like a perv for a minute before you get your sweats on."

Sam laughs. "Sure."

«»

Chuck actually falls down this time. Tumbles almost to the bottom of the dungeon. Sam shouts like fucking mad for Cas and it just rattles Chuck out of it.

"M'okay, let go," he gripes.

"Fuck you," Sam snaps. And immediately regrets it. It's not Chuck's fault he fell.

But he should have fucking said he was feeling bad enough to fall down.

The thought swings him right back to angry.

He hefts Chuck up and troops back upstairs. Cas meets him at the top, wide-eyed.

"Sorry, I've got him." He gets Chuck to a seat in the library and forces him to stay there while Cas checks him for damage.

"I'm not an object," Chuck hisses.

Cas clamps a hand on his head and squints at him.

Then he just says: "You need to tell Sam."

And he leaves the room.

Chuck rolls his eyes while Sam comes to loom over him. "Tell me what?"

He shakes his head and gets up. Crosses his arms and heads back toward the stairs. Sam catches up and touches his back. Steers him to the room again.

Chuck sighs but he goes.

He climbs into bed while Sam locks the door and dumps his phone on the side table. Sits down next to him while he pulls the covers up into a shell and huddles inside.

"What's up??" Sam presses, feeling testy.

Chuck hesitates one more time. "I feel how angry you are. You're not telling me why and everything's starting to feel a little unreal. And it maybe seeps in and stains things like. Like I start to think I'm the one you're fed up with. And now I can't even walk down the stairs right," his voice wobbles.

Alright. No.

This is Sam's anger now bottled up and punishing his spouse. That was completely unintentional. He had really thought he had more of a handle on it today. He was trying not to let it see the light.

"I can't even walk right and you're always picking up after me. I'm a disaster. I can't do anything r-"

"No," Sam interrupts him. "That's not what's going on. Okay, here," he motions for Chuck to come over and he peeks out of the covers. He's reluctant.

"You don't have to pick me up and drag me around all the time-"

"Yeah except that you can't even walk down th-" He cuts himself off. That was. This is difficult. What the hell is his problem?

Sam tries again. "Were you dizzy? Or did I make you miss a step somehow?"

 _Shame_ colors Chuck's words when he says, "I forgot my legs aren't as long. I donno. It was. And my knee wobbled. I." He shakes his head, at a loss.

Sam takes a big, deliberate breath and just... redirects the anger back at god. God, who did this to his husband.

Who used him. Crowded and wounded his head. Threw him away as scrap. For Sam to find and listen to. Listen to Chuck's words and be told he's special and loved and realize that Chuck is a treasure, not spare parts.

God set it up so Chuck sees and feels things beyond himself that aren't real. God might as well have kicked out a foot and tripped him on the damn stairs.

He turns and digs through the sheets until he unearths Chuck's hand. Kisses the top and holds it, trying to be soothing. "I'm sorry. You're not the one I'm angry at. I think I'm boiling over about a lot of things right now, but none of them are you. You're trying to do the best with what you got and maybe I'm so pissed off it's kind of... obtrusive. And it makes you feel me too much?" he guesses. "Did I just crowd you out of your own head?"

Chuck's shoulders drop in misery but he doesn't say it out loud.

He won't even criticize Sam when he knows he's done something wrong.

"I'm sorry," Sam whispers this time. "You've got plenty to deal with without me pushing anger in every direction."

Chuck looks so small. He tugs on Sam's hand. "I can help you with it? I know how. Please?"

He swings close to kiss him. "Like how?"

Deep breath and he shrugs out of the covers, extends his other hand. Sam moves to sit in front of him.

Chuck takes his hands and... Sam thinks he's going to do one of his tricks with the bind again.

But he just. Talks.

Uses his amazing words to remind Sam what this is all about.

"You know what I thought of the other day?"

Sam shakes his head.

"Your purple dog shirt."

He can't help but drop his head and laugh.

"Love it when you blush like that," Chuck says, smiling. "But I was thinking about how we have questionable styling choices because we're pretty, you know, limited. By," he sighs, "funds and time and circumstance."

"You've bought a lot of cool clothes for me, though," Sam points out.

"And you've helped me pick comfortable things." He pulls Sam a little closer. "We need to think about our home, Sammy. We need to decide what it's gonna look like when it's painted and pillowed and got cabinets and all."

He doesn't want to, but he still hesitates. Their plan for Dean's grace exchange could easily fall through. It feels too dangerous to get Chuck's hopes up about home after a tumble like that.

There's a loose thread strung from his chest all the time. He thinks he knows what it is, now. After weeks of feeling it, he can recognize the uncomfortable looseness: it's the open-ended permission they've given Cas to enter Chuck's head and heal him without asking. His heart is clawing for it, sometimes -- to close up the bind and protect his husband. Revoke permission and disallow anymore intrusion.

But if Chuck should pass out, freak out, fall down - if he's unable to wake up and Cas doesn't have permission from both of them, no matter the intention, if Cas goes more than skin-deep, Sam is certain that the bind will burn him.

All at once he knows these things: no matter how badly he wants to go home, he can't harbor that hope too close. But not planning things will disappoint and distress Chuck. So he has to play along.

He also knows where his anger is coming from - it's the loss. The loss of hope in their house and the loss of sanctity in the bind.

The craving for it is so bad he's still simmering, no matter how much he tries to let Chuck soothe his anger away.

"Do something for me?" he asks, knowing it's dangerous.

Chuck nods, no hesitation.

"Can we take Castiel's permission away? Just until after we nap? And then we'll say he can have it again."

"It's bothering you?"

His eyes close reflexively as he dips to pull Chuck's hands to his mouth and kiss them, all reverence, wedging open the feeling in himself so maybe Chuck will see it through the bind.

Sam finally looks up and Chuck's eyes are roving, far-away.

They snap back to Sam. "No permission. He doesn't have my permission anymore. He can't come in. Nobody can."

It really is an immediate relief. He can feel how Chuck taking back his own consent seals the breach. But he takes his own away, too, to be sure. "Mine too. No more anyone else. Just us. Oh fuck. Pillow Fort."

It feels so much more _right_ like this. A swell of peace. Of connectedness. Feeling his parts equal a whole. Feeling himself equal his partner.

"Pillow fort," Chuck agrees, pulls him in to hug him. "You know you keep looking for a name for the house other than 'Bobby's Place' or 'South Dakota.' Maybe it's the real-life pillow fort."

He drags Chuck in and gathers him up. The anger falls away like an adrenaline crash.

It feels so fucking good. Just them.

If this is The Bunker, maybe their place is The Fortress.

He's gonna build those high, anti-zombie walls. If Chuck needs them, they'll go up. The pillow fort is for them, but the fortress sounds like someplace he can protect his family.

No idea how to do this, but here goes: "I like maps. I donno I've always liked them even if we don't need them. We found those old Thomas Guides and survey maps in that one storage locker. And, I donno. We could decorate the walls with them like that one lady at the home and garden convention. And I wanna read up on Feng Shui. But I kinda think our kitchen should have blues. Like light blues? I don't even know why-"

"You're a romantic sap is why," Chuck touches his neck and doesn't laugh at all. It's nice his husband thinks of his sap as a positive.

"Pictures," he says into Chuck's hair. "Pictures everywhere. Our family and the places we go and you and me. We have to start taking more pictures."

"Couches," Chuck says, pulling back to speak. "Big, mismatched ones because I don't care if they're ugly. I care that they feel good. That you fit across them."

They stare for a while and Sam tries to kiss him distracted but Chuck gives him a _look_. "You don't know what else, do you?"

He shrugs a little. "Um. Not really."

"Me neither," he sighs. "We suck at this. You know what we need to do while Dean's working? Buy magazines."

"Ugh. And probably look at Pinterest."

"Let's not go crazy, now." He cards through Sam's hair. "You feel better?"

He considers himself. Looks deep. That loose thread was pulled and. Yeah. It feels better. Things feel secure and complete. He watches Chuck close his eyes and feels him _feeling him_ somewhere across the bind.

Okay. Yeah. Maybe they can't be lazy about this- "Maybe we have to give Cas permission only when we really need to," Chuck speaks his thoughts out loud. "À la carte or whatever."

"That could be- I mean. Really, that fucking worries me."

"I know. Because of what _could_ happen. But we can't leave it open like that for as long as we have if it feels like a splinter festering inside of you."

"It wasn't that horrible."

Chuck shakes his head. "You don't like letting your anger grow. You try so hard to be calm and my brain hasn't been that bad lately. Let's balance this. We can do this, okay? It's not worth you feeling like that."

It's dangerous. Dangerous to risk that Cas won't be able to heal him if-

"Maybe there's a loophole. Maybe you give me permission to give _your_ permission whenever we need to-"

"No. That's not gonna happen. We're not gonna go looking for loopholes and I doubt there are, anyway. I wanted this for us to protect you. We won't leave anything open like that. Open that door and we don't know what else could go through it. I wanna leave it as-is. If I feel weird-" he stops and steels himself. "This means that I'll talk it out with you more. If I feel even the slightest bit off, we'll exchange permission and I'll let you take care of me. I'll be better about talking about it."

Yes. He'll take it. "Promise? You gotta promise me."

Chuck pulls Sam's hand from where it's spanned on his back and indicates his rings. "I've already promised you. So I promise again. This is too important to screw up. I promise I'll whine when I feel even the least bit-"

"You'll _tell me_ and I won't have to worry that you might drop at any minute."

"Okay. Promise."

"Good. So tell me how tall your legs are right now."

"They're fine," and he really does whine a little. This is gonna be an uphill battle.

"And what kinda things do you want on our walls? In our house? And not just _for me_ \- for you, too."

"I just don't want institution-white or taupe walls. One of the rooms," he pauses, sighs. "One of the library-rooms has to be comfortable for Claire. Another has to be good for Dean n' Cas."

"Okay. But seriously. Should we go look at carpet samples? Fixtures? Colors?"

"Yeah. I think so. I don't know what married-dude houses look like."

"Okay. I want you to sleep for a while and then we'll go on the internet and look up the different stores around and... I donno. Go look at ceiling fans."

Chuck laughs and pulls him into a kiss that goes hot, tightens his guts and makes him know how much he's wanted. He pulls away only to whisper, "You're doing your job. It's okay. I'm sorry that made you feel so tense, honey. I'm sorry you felt like you were letting people into our marriage."

"You shouldn't have to say you're sorry for anything. I stew and I stew and I just get too angry to make sense of things before I even notice."

He's stopped by Chuck's hand pressed over his mouth. "You're not blindly angry. You catch up to it when I ask you to. You trust me to talk and I haven't been. Let's stop being sorry for shit. Let's just decide to do better next time. Fuck. Sam, I just want you to be happy. I just need you to be okay. We'll adjust and be better. You deserve for this to be easy. Life's complicated enough. This has been hard on both of us and. Shit. I just wanna see an end in sight, you know? I wanna look down the road and have the next turn in mind. I love you," he breathes. "I love you."

That's it. Sam settles him down on the bed and crouches over him to kiss him and touch him and hold him sleepy. He knows exactly the right way. Exploits it deliberately until he's just petting Chuck, watching his eyes drift shut. Smiling at him so the last thing he sees is someone who loves him back just as much.

It's a little overwhelming, knowing he gets to keep this guy. It's like he can't be disappointed. He can't find fault in Sam - he only sees _projects_. Stuff he wants them to work on together. You would think he might get used to it, but every time Chuck doesn't hurt him he's still amazed that it sticks.

He's so unworthy.

You know who else is unworthy?  
God.

He doesn't deserve to have walked around in Chuck.

And he doesn't deserve what Sam is gonna do right now.

Sam is going to forgive him.

It's not his place to forgive god for the awful violation Chuck went through. Chuck is gonna hurt from the very thought of it for years to come, maybe forever, and Sam reserves the right to be angry for him; to be angry at god with his husband. Loathe the takeover that likely took place and the way Chuck, a living, loving being was used as a _suit_.

But Sam has been walloped too many times to carry more hate. He can't do it. He's got no room left. His hate spaces are being transformed and used for other stuff. Knowledge and love and psychically connecting to his husband.

Building a house; renovating himself.

God's actions, good or bad, threw Chuck back into Sam's path. And there was a lot of reason to be worried about that. Still is, with Chuck's most recent death as evidence. Chuck is very human and very mortal and _very_ breakable. Vulnerable.

But Sandalphon might have found Chuck anyway, regardless of whether or not Sam was visiting him at the time. He could have been in danger anyway. Any day, without Sam in his life, he could have encountered ghosts, monsters, and demons without an angelic brother-in-law to fix him or a marriage bind-- a pillow fort to save him.

He lays down and spans his hand on Chuck's side and watches him, matches his breath, trying to rest a little.

Sam forgives god because he's been getting his ass kicked by god's creations and told he's worthless by god's creations and been lied to by god's creations and been flat-out used by god's creations. But god made Chuck. And maybe he decided Sam had enough punishment and gave him this to make up for it.

That's probably exactly right.

Because he'd been ready to die for a while. But he has Chuck and now he is not willing to die at all. And he'd go through his whole stupid life of suffering again to have Chuck by his side.

Chuck has taken punishment to lend even a small amount of protection to Sam. He never tells him he's fucked and broken. He says it might feel that way, but they'll work on it.

"I wanna work on it," he says, out loud.

Chuck doesn't stir. But it's a promise to him. And as close as Sam can come to forgiveness with god. They'll work on it. His faith has been yanked around, trashed, rewarded, demolished, betrayed, and honored. He doesn't want to lose it. 

He thinks it brought Chuck to him.  
He'd rather have it than not.

Maybe he won't be praying for a while, but he doesn't have to worry about becoming Lucifer.

Because he's capable of change and forgiveness and having faith. And his family wouldn't let him betray his own self. Wouldn't let him lose those things.

He cuddles Chuck close. Thinks of everything he's always wanted to do but never got around to. More projects, so they never run out.

«»

Before dinner, they've set aside research and are flipping through another magazine when Sam feels Chuck get intrigued. He reaches around him to turn a page back and he can feel Chuck do it again. He likes the way the office is set up in this image. There's nothing they like on the next page, so Sam tears it out and hands him a marker.

Chuck thinks for a minute and, instead of circling anything, he just writes "yes" in the top corner. Then lets Sam put it in the folder of stuff they like. There isn't much in it yet.

Nothing betrayed Chuck's feeling except the bind. They haven't given Castiel's permission back and Sam is still reveling in the comfort of being safe and closed-off.

The next day, about 15 hours after, he kinda feels like Chuck is getting better, faster.

This is worth the risk. As long as Chuck alerts him when he so much as feels funny, they can keep the bind closed off, keep to themselves, and only give permission to open it up when Chuck really, seriously needs Cas.

For the time being, though, it's also an incredible confidence-booster for Sam, knowing that their bind, the link between just the two of them, is what needs to be held sacred and quiet for Chuck to heal.

Knowing that _his husband_ needs _him_ the most. That's worth it.

«»

Krissy and Alex get going the next day to start scoping things out. And also because Krissy really needs some breathing room. They all understand.

Dean follows with everybody else the day after.

Sam and Chuck will be following tomorrow. Charlie got a room at her hotel for them. Everyone else is dotted throughout town, at different motels and abandoned houses. Sam certainly wasn't gonna protest. He needs someplace soft and safe for Chuck. He knows he'll be out with Dean more than he absolutely intends to be so Chuck should at least have their two big rooms to float through and shower without mold creeping up between the tiles.

For just today, the bunker is empty except for them.

Sam stares at Chuck.  
He's suspicious.

Chuck ignores this. He's working on the research.

He continues to ignore Sam throughout the day. It feels strange. _They_ feel strange. The bind was making them feel normal but.

Today, they feel like they're an ocean away from one another.

Chuck is typing steadily most the time. Getting emails and IMs out to the others. When he's not, he's researching, headphones on and... Sam can't see his computer because he shifts to angle the screen away from Sam a little. Sam doesn't know why but he seems to be trying to hold on to words, different threads of thought. Not just messages and research but paragraphs, like a story or something. And Sam doesn't really want to disturb that, but it doesn't seem so much like dedication as... he doesn't know. Maybe avoidance?

He eats when it's time and they watch an episode of one of Sam's shows. And Chuck only has one cup of coffee. That's like an all-time record minimum of caffeine for him. It doesn't appear to give him a headache or anything. Chuck's got a grip on this one thing. This one line of thought driving him to slow but steady progress as he works the day away.

Until is slips right out of his grasp.

Sam waits on going to pack their stuff because he feels it coming, pressure at the back of his skull like a storm rolling in, and then he sees it happen out of the corner of his eye. Chuck takes a breath, jaw dropping and he leans away from the table and.

It almost looks like he's breathing manually. Like he has to think about it.

"Shut the fuck up, idiot," he says, low and to the keyboard and Sam shouldn't have heard, but he did.

He stares down and then looks up to click around on the computer again. Saving and closing things out. He shuts the laptop and no matter how quiet he's doing this, Sam still notices. Still looks up and has a hard time concealing his alarm at the sudden intentional blankness that's overcome his husband.

It's either a wave of memory that's gonna drag him under or a panic attack.

From the bind comes sheer, flat, pristine peace. Utter silence. They aren't touching but it's still more blank than it should be.

Chuck doesn't ask. Chuck doesn't ask for help or say anything to Sam. He pushes his mouse against his laptop and leaves. Goes down to their bedroom and closes the door almost entirely.

Sam lets him stay in the dark room, alone, for a fucking absolute maximum of _maybe_ three minutes. It's probably not that long. The buzzing panic that he enters with makes him turn on the light and come to the side of the bed and feel the lumps of the sheets until he's got Chuck's hand under his somewhere.

He's lying there huddled in the center with his eyes open. Staring at the far wall.

"You've been shut out away from me all day. And, like, a fucking alarm just went off. Only it sounds like absolutely nothing and it is officially scaring the fuck out of me," he says. "It's almost like the bind doesn't exist at all and I'm seriously terrified of what you just shut yourself away with, all alone. So I'm fucking begging you to let me come looking for you. Or for you to open back up. Or for you to at least say something to me. Please just say something to me. You haven't really been okay all day and I think you were waiting for this to happen. And maybe you didn't want to bother me with it or something? But I'm asking, Chuck. I'm asking to know. Please let me know. Just. Anything." Worst-case scenarios are running through his head. He's wondering if he needs to call up Cas, turn him around and get him to drive back up to Kansas.

Chuck shrugs. "I don't know what to tell you."

"I think this is the point where you ask me for help."

"I don't need help."

Maybe he doesn't _know_ he needs it but he's seen Chuck go blank before and it's like this but in a more physical way. Like when he feels he has to be nice about it in company. When he can't explain all he's seen and all he remembers and he doesn't want to tell anyone what's falling down on him, he just wants to _run from it_ no matter how much he knows he will never be able to run fast enough. "You say that and then sometimes I find you with your nails digging into your skin like you're about to fucking hurt yourself. Either you crack yourself open and say something or I really, seriously have _no choice_ but to push this. I won't watch you drown all alone. I think I know how to make you talk and I don't want to _make you_ do anything. I want you to come to me because you're pretty clearly in distress here."

He flops his other hand on the bed. Looks around. "I'm not even stressed. I'm not distressed. I'm in bed."

Sam looks away for a minute.

And Chuck's fist clenches underneath Sam's hand.

He feels it. His eyes slide back over to the sheets as Chuck tries to spread his fingers out subtly.

"Say the first fucking thing that comes to your mind. Now," Sam requests, hoping he's too busy shutting down not to mindlessly play along.

"Other."

"When I say 'other' you say?"

"Alien."

"When I say 'alien' you say?"

"Broken."

"When I say 'broken' you say?"

"Brain."

"Chuck."

"Yeah," he sobs. "That. Broken. Brain. Chuck." He fucking loses it. Starts crying so hard his air cuts off. "What kind of fucking brain damage do I have?" he spits between tears. "What the fuck do I think I'm doing here? I'm a piece of shit. I'm a fucking urchin. I'm not a crab I'm an urchin I'm a spiny piece of shit. I'm shit. I'm fucking broken and worthless and dry and I wish I was hollow. I wish I was hollow and empty and really just empty and life would be easier. Nobody would be out risking themselves for my stupid empty skin I-" He spins on until he can't breathe between the words.

Sam lays down to move him around until he's not curled into a ball, so his chest expands and he clutches at him. Sam curls around him and wipes his face and flattens his clawed fingers between his own two hands. He's trying to murmur comforting things and trying to hush him, but Chuck doesn't seem to be tuning in at all.

Chuck is too sure of his own words.

Then he tries to push Sam away so much that he exhausts himself faster than usual. He cries until it looks like he should run dry; until it looks like it hurts.

He slows to hiccups and dry sobs and he shrinks against Sam like he just wants to disappear.

He won't say anything. Burying himself under it. Under whatever has suddenly overwhelmed him. Sam lets him be small but he doesn't let him worm away or turn away. Doesn't let him forget for one moment that somebody's here. Someone loves him and doesn't want him swept under this.

He just wishes Chuck would say something, but, when he does, he's sorry. Just sorry. "Sorry sorry sorry I'm sorry," he chokes and chants until Sam puts a hand over his mouth.

"I don't like the things you have to say today. I can't let you say them. I can't, Chuck. You don't get to say those things about my _husband_."

"Oh god," he croaks.

"I am not an expert at this. I'm gonna try my very fucking best. Because you've pulled me out of my own furnace enough. I have to figure out how to do that for you. I have to find you in your head. Gotta admit: it would be a lot easier if you could let up on the bind and stop trying to protect me from yourself. I'm very fucking strong, Chuck. I am very fucking capable of killing whatever is after you. I won't stop until it's stone dead. Let me at it. Please. _Please_ fucking let me," he tries not to make it desperate begging but he's coming to a slow realization that this _genuinely hurts_. Watching this happen to Chuck is no more bearable than watching him get lost in memories or seeing him physically wounded.

Chuck pulls his hands out from between Sam's and fists his fingers in his shirt. "If I let too much out of those rooms, you're gonna s-see stuff that will hurt. Hurt you. I can't. I have to. I can do this alone."

It has to do with the hall? "You can't do this alone. That's not what we agreed to. You're not allowed. You signed up for this," Sam reminds him. "It's my job to help you handle what's in there, Chuck. Remember? If you don't share the weight of it with me, it could be too heavy for you and I might lose you again. Things may crack. We may have to make you sleep for _days_ to help you fix it. I don't want you to go for that long. We're never sleeping without each other again." Sam tries not to panic. Tries not to reach for his phone and frantically text Cas.

Chuck lets his eyes close.

"You know you're gonna let go of the bind if you fall asleep. And I'll come over anyway. I'll be able to see in," Sam reminds him.

He opens his eyes.

"You might as well let me. You should let me help you. You have to let me do this. My husband is in pain and I don't know what else to do. You can't stand in the way of me helping him," he practically pleads.

Chuck takes a deep breath that breaks on the way in.

He stops trying to keep Sam out.

Sam can tell he immediately feels a little better. Like he's still beaten on the ground but they took the boot off his face.

Sam closes his eyes and he wraps around Chuck really tight in every way he can. He's still trying to see the 'roots' of the bind too literally, but he rushes at them to check their integrity, finds them and sees that nothing is worse than it was before and moves forward to be in Chuck's mental space in love-love-love pressing into him and blocking out the hallway with himself.

There are incomprehensible little fragments everywhere. Sam doesn't care. He imagines himself kicking them away, watching them skid far down the hall and get the fuck away from his Chuck.

"You let this build all day. You didn't say anything. The bind was trying to tell me you were cutting us off and it was freaking me out. I couldn't hear what was wrong. But it was you throwing up a curtain to keep me out so you could go to pieces all on your own. I'm gonna clue you into something," he breathes. "That did _not_ work. And when you feel like you're about to get run over, you know you're supposed to fucking talk to me."

"I don't know anything anymore. I have to start from scratch. I feel so fucking gutted right now," Chuck mumbles.

Sam takes a deep breath. Then another. His lips press against Chuck's head and inside he's just projecting his squid-like self into their weird mental marriage. He's trying to be everywhere to block out all the badness, toss the pieces away. He actively rejects human physics and tries to shut all the doors at once. It's fair that Chuck feels this way. It's not right and Sam won't let him sit in the feeling and stagnate, but it is fair that, out of all the ups and downs since he was stabbed, he should have a minute to freak out and cry and feel broken. He was broken by somebody and Sam, of all people, knows that, even if you don’t exactly remember dying, you always remember, upon coming back, that things were different before. You always know things will never be the same.

He isn't afraid that what won't be the same is _them_. He knows Chuck feels different inside. They've both gained some unexpected perspective. But the long and the short of those new views is pretty much that, as far as the eye can see? Here they are. Sam can't think of life without a husband anymore. It doesn't make sense.

Shit. It doesn't make sense that he suffered so long, alone and friendless in the word, up to the day he stumbled on Chuck. It no longer even makes sense to him that he left Chuck in his apartment after the first detox. He blinks at Chuck sometimes in a _what the fuck did I ever do without you?_ sorta way. It feels like getting clocked every damn time. He can't go back to living in a world where he's not understood front-and-back.

It doesn't feel good, but it is certainly not unexpected that Chuck should be walloped by his depression, by recent events, by a major life change.

What Sam will have to do, however, is wait. Wait for Chuck to point to the infection - the part of the wound that hasn't healed that Sam needs to patch up, like the wall. With no Cas here to show him the way, it's his job to tackle the breach himself this time. It feels like the real test has come, at last.

Chuck doesn't make Sam wait too long to show him what he has to attack, what he has to free his husband from:

"I lied," Chuck sobs again, dry and sad and painful.

"It's okay," Sam automatically assures him, knowing full well that he has no idea how big it might have been to shatter something inside Chuck's hallway and leave it in a thousand pieces. "That happens and we work it out. You don't have to feel this way. I know we try our hardest not to. But it happens. I promise we'll be okay. I fucking swear. Are you ready to tell me about it?"

"I lied about my writing. I lied. I haven't been working on the fiction separate from you. I h-haven't been helping you write hunting books," he sniffs miserably. "I've had a secret project. D-dean and Charlie helped me make a secret project. I'm so sorry."

Sam hates being right. He hates this. Chuck lied about something that's probably no big deal and it broke his heart, anyway, all because he thought the lie would make Sam miserable.

But if Charlie agreed to keep it away from him, there must be a reason.

"You're okay," he assures him again. "Do you wanna tell me what the secret project is?"

"No? I donno!" he clenches his hands again and his eyes dart, trying to decide.

"Can you tell me if it's something dangerous, at least? Or if I shouldn't be worr-"

"I'm still using a public pen name. I still have. I have a bank account. I'm still making money. It's not just the foreign-language articles I'm writing."

Okay. Well. The last time he made money he was pretty much saving it up to buy Sam's rings.

The only other possible use for his own account that Sam can think of would be.

Would be if Chuck was saving money like Sam had intended for him. To have a go-bag. A backup plan in case things suddenly went apeshit...

Or.  
Some primitive, frightened, lizard-brain voice notes:  
It could be a source of income to fall back on in case he decided to _leave_.

He rejects the thought automatically but that particular punch to the gut must have shuddered through the bind, anyway, because Chuck goes wide-eyed and pleading. "No! No no no please don't, please _don't_ I wanted-- I wanted it to be a _good_ thing and I just! I just- my head spun out of-- I keep thinking I can't do anything without-- I don't know! I tried to keep one little lame secret and I'm thinking what an asshole I am that I have to and I can't just do things on my own and-- I'm not making any sense," he laments. "I don't want to tell you but it's not- it's not something I want to hide from you. It's good. It's something I want for you. I don't want you to ever fucking think that way. I'm the one who was thinking I'm a total shit and I should just disappear but if I disappear, at this point, it hurts you. It hurts you, now, when I just want to fucking. Fucking fold in and _hurt myself_ and dig these memories out from under my skin. I'm not just doing that to myself anymore, I'm doing it to _you_ and I feel awful but you want it??? So I feel awful for feeling awful! I don't know where it ends. I don't know where my brain is going. My brain is broken," his words fall apart into a sob again and that's plenty, thanks. That's totally just enough for today. For the whole week. For the month. For the year.

From what he can piece together Chuck is just sad about keeping _any_ secret, even if the current one is probably only aimed at, like, buying him a fucking present or something.

But Chuck's depression saw an opening and it cannonballed right in. It took this one, minor worry and picked up all his doubts and rolled downhill like an avalanche stacking up more and more doubts before burying him at the bottom.

"Okay. So here's what this is," Sam loosens his hold to pet down Chuck's neck but he flinches. Sam doesn't take it personally, just moves down to his arm, to stroke soft and consistent and repetitive. "This is the old illness just trying to eat you alive. Okay? That's what this is. It has nothing to do with secrets or thinking you're gonna hurt me. You would never hurt me, never intentionally, and I have complete fucking confidence in that. Never in your life would you choose to hurt me and you can have secrets. You can have secret projects. I'm glad you finally told me and if you need more time to bring it together? That's fine. Your last secret project ended up with you proposing to me," he grins the way Chuck can't resist and he flexes his fingers before pressing their heads together. He's paying attention. He's listening. "If you need to keep your secret project so you can give me something, I'm not gonna argue. But you're not allowed to let things eat you alive. When you feel this way, you're supposed to share. You don't let it rot and turn ugly and tell you things that aren't true."

He throws off the covers to rearrange them and give them more air. It's hot in here with Chuck fighting his mind back and Sam sticking close trying to help.

"I don't want you to be hollow. I don't want you to wish you were hollow. Things are broken. Things like the wall. But we've patched you up and we're gonna keep growing and they'll just be scars. You've already been so amazing. Something that should have leveled you only made you more talented. I'm so proud of you." Chuck stretches his fingers again and dips to hide his face because he can never get used to being told that. "I really am. And I'm here for whatever. As long as a secret isn't gonna hurt somebody - and that includes _you_ \- if you have to keep it for a while, that's okay. I understand. It's just part of being human. And I do _really_ trust you not to hurt me." He avoids touching his neck but brings his hand up to Chuck's chin to make him meet his eyes. "Hermit Crab. Nobody's allowed to make you feel anything less than loved. You're not an urchin. You're not broken. You're not hollow. You've got a shell full of amazing words. When--. Look. When your head. When this? Your anxiety and depression and your panic. When they tell you these things that you _know_ I would disagree with? Let me come argue with them. Don't shut me out. Don't lock it away. You know it's bigger than the hallway. You know it won't fit behind a door. And if we can't trap it? We gotta kill it. You've been a hunter long enough to know."

It's silent, but Chuck agrees, nodding. He stares. So Sam takes the time to check on the wall and see that nothing they've patched or healed has broken or fractured again. This really is depression and not some surge of damage. What Chuck feels is still serious, it's just that Sam is sure it's something they can handle together. Chuck only needs help hauling himself over it and feeling good again.

Maybe it's right that they're getting up, out onto the road tomorrow. Maybe they've been in the bunker too long. He knows they'd both like to go home, but they've got this, for now. They can go help their family; go hunt.

Dean wants Sam there with him when he lets Cas in tomorrow, to leave a little wisp of himself behind and begin the spell. Dean wants all good thoughts and productivity and feelings of family flowing through him as he goes through this two weeks. He wants this little bit of grace to be fostered and loved and nurtured fiercely so it returns to Cas in the best possible condition to restore his wings. 

They need their family all together. One more push. Two weeks of sacrifice to the Hunt. Then he can take his husband home.

"Gonna pack. Okay? I'll be right here."

Chuck blinks slow but nods.

"You feel like crap, but nothing is wrong. I really don't want you to let that feeling take over. I want you to be home with me. Okay?"

Chuck nods again. Sam pets his head.

Tank-half-full. This is gonna work. Sam can feel it.

His Significant Other is worried and crying and tragic about getting him a gift, he just knows it. They're bona fide ridiculous. He loves every square inch of it. Every projected mile of them flying out over the horizon and straight off the known map. All the unknown moments of their future-to-be.

It doesn't feel right to be smiling in the face of Chuck's breakdown. He really can't help it. He really can't help loving someone this much. How could he?

Sam kisses Chuck and gets up. Packs and packs and chooses Chuck's shirt for tomorrow since he's already drifted off. He only leaves for two minutes to get their computers. Wraps up their cords and makes sure the coffee machine is set to start before they wake.

In bed, Chuck is dead-tired. Floppy to the point of hilarity. Sam drags him on top of himself and kisses over the side of his head a whole lot until he makes some sort of annoyed snorting noise. It's great. Every dumb thing he does is great. Sam's got a huge crush on his husband. He doesn't care who knows it.

«»

Dean tries not to look slightly terrified. But he's always gonna be scared of this. He's saying he wants the possession over with. Then he keeps putting it off. Finally, they're on the point of going out to burn their first ghost and there's no more avoiding it. But suddenly he wants it done in private.

"It'll be fine," he tries to convince himself out loud. He's even past the point of hanging too near Sam, as if for protection. He's resigned - isolating himself physically, standing apart from the family, back against the wall. "Give me and Cas two minutes in Charlie's room." He pushes past everyone and disappears in there.

Cas shrugs and follows. Closes the door behind himself.

They all stare at it.

Chuck takes Sam's hand and pulls him away quietly, all the way to the elevator.

He presses the button for the lobby and then jams the button to close the door about ten times.

"It's getting there, Sweetheart," he pulls Chuck away from the panel.

He sighs when they're finally moving. "Dean is gonna wring his hands for another three minutes and then it's gonna be really loud for me. Sorry."

Oh. "No, I get it."

Chuck doesn't meet his eyes. "Be careful tonight."

Sam doesn't say anything. He doesn't plan on being there the whole time. As soon as they've got the privateer's spirit cornered, it's up to Dean. Sam and Cas and the kids are back-up. Charlie is taking Dean's left, Donna his right. Jody has to leave in two days, max. She's already working the next case with Claire.

Sam has a self-imposed limit on the night's hunt. As soon as he knows Dean is safe, he gets back in the car and returns to the hotel. Him and Chuck work the research for Case Number 3 for a while, then go to bed.

He's done pretending it's not dead-exhausting. Done pretending he's still young enough for this bullshit. Dean's gonna keep on truckin'. Sam is winding down.

It doesn't feel like winding down. It feels like the weeks before the end of the school year. In fact, it almost feels like he's got some huge exam coming up. The loom of it is weirdly hard to shake. But he's treating it like winding down so Chuck knows his husband is with him, here, on the edge of the end.

In the lobby, they sit to wait and Chuck chooses a chair next to him.

He hates the cringing face Chuck is making so he gets up, makes sure the woman behind the front desk is otherwise occupied, and moves to sit on Chuck's lap, most of his weight over the arms of the chair.

"Um."

Sam lounges over Chuck. "Hi."

"Hi?"

"Need me to hold your ears?"

"Not yet. What are you doing?"

"You didn't come sit on my lap."

"We're in the lobby. We're trying to stay low-pro for two weeks," but he reaches around to settle Sam closer on top of himself. "You've gotten too skinny in the past few weeks. Stop worrying about me."

"Ten-four, right away, no problem," he laughs.

Chuck flinches. So Sam covers his ears, though the sound of grace is maybe not gonna be muted that easily, he has to try. Chuck sinks down to have his head hugged and Sam is able to try quieting it further.

"How long would Cas have to hang out to leave a trace in Dean?"

"Not long," Chuck shrugs, speaking into his shirt. "But they'll probably give it a few minutes to make sure. And also for pervy stuff because Dean is a total-"

"I don't need these images in my head," Sam gripes.

"How do you think I feel?"

"Tired. Tired of it all."

"Not too tired to stay up and wait for you. Please be safe."

Sam clings to his head like the squid he is. "I will."

"I love you. Please let Dean feed you."

"We already ate dinner. He won't eat again until the hunt is over."

Chuck is quiet for a while. Sam is close to him. Super close. He can feel him thinking. He rubs the back of Chuck's neck and waits.

"You really did lose weight. You've been worrying about me and you haven't been eating as well. You haven't been exercising as much," he takes a breath. "I keep seeing the moment you shot Aiden. I keep seeing the last time I saw you, trying to tell you I love you, and the next thing you had to do right after was keep the demon from killing Cas. I keep seeing it," his hand is a white-knuckled fist, twisted in Sam's jacket.

Sam knew he was a little more fucked up about that then he was letting on. And now he's let Claire confess her own regrets to him and he's mixed up inside.

"He was a brat but I didn't want him to die," Chuck says, quiet.

Sam gets to his feet and moves back to the other overstuffed chair. Wedges them into the same seat together because Chuck isn't wrong. He's been pulling his belt tighter, recently. He knows he hasn't been eating as well because Dean keeps trying to shove food off on him. He hasn't been staying long into the evening, hanging out with the family over meals because he's eaten so damn many of them with Chuck still asleep in another room. While that's been better since Cas helped them again, since Chuck has been able to reclaim more of the hours out of each of his days, Sam's been pushing food at Chuck off his own plate. He's been worried as hell. More focused on Chuck than on his own crap.

And he's been sick about Krissy. How empty she must feel. Sad for Dean, who lost one of the kids he was looking out for. Messed up about Josie, who thought she couldn't come to them for help.

"I'll wait until they're done and get celebratory cheese fries for everybody. We'll bring back a whole fucking pallet," he promises. He can listen to Chuck: if he's worried about this, they can work on it.

Chuck nods and leans into his side.

"I have to hang back. Dean has to be the one to bag these wins. I'm gonna keep everybody out of the fray and I'll stay safe. Everyone's gonna be fine."

"We don't have to retire," Chuck offers again, voice quiet, words genuine.

"We do. We have a house to build. Projects to do. We gotta move on," he assures Chuck.

Sam watches him take a deep breath. He's about to say something but jolts and folds over, covering his ears. Sam tries to help but it's through quickly.

"Geeze," Chuck blinks. "They're ready."

"You okay?"

He swallows. "I'm gonna try not to, but if I fall asleep before you get back-"

"That would be okay. Do you want me to wake you up?"

"Yeah."

He turns Chuck's face up and finally gets a look at how wrecked he is about this. "Promise I'll keep you updated. Promise I'll be okay. I love you."

"I love you, too. Hence the whole," he just motions to all of himself and Sam laughs.

Also agrees. "Yeah. I know what you mean." He kisses Chuck and makes sure he's got his phone and his key card. The others come downstairs in both elevator cars

Chuck seems really weird about this. It's the first hunt back and he's going to be in an actual, cozy hotel, less involved than before. As separate as he was when he lived on his own. He waves them off at the lobby and heads back upstairs, doesn't wait to wave at the cars or anything.

It has a sort of unexpected benefit.

Sam isn't able to keep in contact with Chuck as much as he expected. Josie texts Chuck a couple times for him when he's got grave dirt up to his elbows (they are _really_ gonna have to invest in an excavator rental) but they go late into the night and Sam ends up pulling himself and the kids away while Dean goes toe-to-toe with what turns out to be a seawater-soaked ghoul.

It all takes longer than anyone wanted it to. He was able to text but not call.

Eight hours without Chuck. More time than he's even slept, straight-through, without checking on him in the past month. And the tense final confrontation was over for an hour before he was able to tell Chuck they were all okay.

His husband's body is all wound-up when Sam finally gets home to him. They end up eating their post-hunt fast-food smorgasbord with the whole family and Chuck gives him the damn _eyes_.

The damn eyes.

For another two fucking hours as they all loosen up and start plotting their next moves, Chuck just.

Just looks _found_. Just looks so far-away and untouchable and tempting. He talks with the others, joins in conversation, but when his eyes find Sam, they're lingering, then shy. His smile is small and subtle. Sam only knows the shape of his face so well he can tell what he's thinking across the room.

Sam ends up so fucking hungry for him. Tries to beg off to get them some quiet and close the connecting door, but it takes forever. Charlie is practically passing out ushering everyone from her room. Chuck practically has to sneak his hand down the back of Sam's jeans in the process of backing out and bidding everyone goodnight. Sam locks the door. Turns to see one of those shy, sweet looks like Chuck used to give him before they were together. When it was all _hope_ thick in the air between them, feeding on the trust they gave each other. The time they gave each other.

He ends up bending Chuck over their couch and eating his ass until he almost makes too much noise. Keeps him there to rail him from behind and fucking flat out forgets to care when they get too loud. He's holding Chuck up by the hips and pulling him onto himself as much as he pounds into him. He comes hard, almost screaming into the skin of Chuck's back. Scoops him up to drop him on the couch backwards and get between his knees, blows him with Chuck's thighs tremoring around his neck.

And Chuck's actually so sore in the morning that Sam has to find a minute, after the damn continental breakfast and stealing extra waffles, to pull Cas away. Because it's probably time for a cleaner bill of health for the both of them, anyway.

Evening comes and, eventually, he has to leave Chuck kind of wanton and lazy and lovely in bed. Has to tear himself away to meet everyone in the parking lot for the second hunt.

He does. And then Sam heads back up in the elevator before anyone can spot him in the lobby. He doesn't give an explanation to anyone. He only texts Jody. Tells her he's using her as an excuse and her only response is, **See you kids in the morning before I leave**.

"Jody is with them. They don't need me," he says, firm and sure. And no one is next door so they're free to make more noise.

He's probably wrong, but it almost seems like Chuck is deliberately making it harder for him to leave. Sam can't get the feel of him out of his head. He knows what he really wants is his teammate by his side on the hunt. Failing that possibility, he just keeps _needing_ him. Just keeps being struck by the grip of Chuck's arms around him. His steady, unshakable presence. How someone is always just _there_ and just for him and Sam barely has to share his husband. If he needs Chuck, Sam is his priority. It's unquestionable. And then the rest of the time Sam just feels connected to him. The shape of him across the room is weirdly alluring? And he's so fucking attuned to the voice of his best friend. Chuck droning on about the history of a place and the logistics of a hunt is a comfort Sam feels deep in his chest.

The thought rocks him. Sudden. Out of nowhere.

It's the fourth day they're on the hunt. Sam hasn't had to leave since the first one.

He hasn't _felt like_ leaving since then. Donna is still here and everyone's been okay. Dean is safe and Cas is being extra vigilant.

And Sam hasn't had to leave his husband. He feels a little guilty about it but.

Then. As he's thinking about heading out to join them. Thinking about how Chuck is _healthy_ and Chuck is _fine_ and Chuck will be here when he gets _back_.

Just a word that fits into an empty space in a landscape he wasn't focused on. Just something that passed before his eyes and lodged in his brain. It's impossible to keep it from Chuck. He gets the flavor of it over the bind, long distance, downstairs buying coffees at the stand outside, and Sam's cell phone rings.

"What just happened?" Chuck demands.

"I just-" he can hear Chuck's breath. He's running to slam the elevator button. "I'm fine."

"Wow. Yeah, okay. That sounds about right," he pants.

Sam just holds his head in his other palm because, oh yes, that was totally a lie. He isn't fine at all. This may be the first time Chuck has to come rescue _him_ so he doesn't get stared at for crying in front of other people. Alex is in Charlie's room with him, pre-assembling hunt number six, and she's already twigged to it. He can feel her staring.

"Do you need me to call Dean for you?" he pants into the phone.

Fuck. No, but that's so _Chuck_. To think Dean's always the first solution to what ails him. To think that he knows who he needs most at any given time and that it's not him.

"Where are you?" Sam asks, his voice falling apart.

"I'm here," Chuck says from the doorway. Sam can hear the echoing scratch of the key card in the door and Chuck hangs up so he can get into the room.

Sam drops his phone to the table and clutches his head. He hears a chair move and he thinks Alex retreats across the room with her laptop while Chuck approaches him and pushes on the side of his chair and wedges in front of him.

Chuck pulls at him and Sam falls into him, crashes his head into him and nearly breaks him in half hauling him in and holding him way fucking tight.

"I can't tell what's doing this to you," and Chuck's scared by that but he won't say it out loud. Not when Sam feels this way.

He can't verbalize it. He can't deal.

He can't say the words. He wants to tear down the world and he also wants to bury himself in a hole and not survive.

Something clicked in his head. And fit directly into words that Cas said to him. Things he said carefully while Chuck was in a coma and Sam was disintegrating into a total mess.

The bind is what ripped Chuck's wall apart. Yes. It did damage.

If the bind had not been there, the damage would have been far greater.

If the bind had not been there for Sam to help repair, Chuck would have been crushed under the weight of the wall collapsing. Cas would have done all he could to fix it and it may have been okay, but probably not enough to pull Chuck out of the coma so soon and definitely not enough for the long-term.

If Chuck had not found this thing to bind them, he would be dead. They may still have been married, but Chuck would be dead and Sam?

Is _leveled_ by the thought of it.

If they'd done this without the bind.  
If he hadn't had roots planted in there to strengthen Chuck's connection outside of himself.

Things might have held together for a while. A painful long while as he watched Chuck deteriorate.

So, yeah. He's pretty much drowning in images of his husband dying. Of watching it happen to him again. But slow. Agonizing. Creeping up his spine and into his brain stem while he was asleep. Of him being in too much pain to wake up. Of having to say goodbye to him after Chuck lost his words. After everything outside of himself stopped having meaning and he left Sam here alone.

Chuck doesn't wanna hear that, though. He would want Sam to stay around for his brother and the rest of their family. But, right now, not being able to say it twists like a knife more than the disappointment Chuck would express at him preferring to give up.

Sam puts both hands to his head and speaks into his neck. "I wanna go home. Right now."

"I can do that. Stand up?"

He clutches at Chuck and stands, feeling almost dizzy, feeling fucked-up, and lets Chuck take him by the arm back to their own room, locking the connecting door behind him.

Chuck sits Sam down and pushes him back a little on the bed to crawl on top of him. "Right here. I'm right here. I can't see this clearly. You're panicking about something and I think it's the bind. But it's right there. I can feel it. I can feel it better than ever since we're being so good to it and it's getting strong."

"I wanna practice. Right now. I want to go there with you. I want to be there with you and make it stronger. I wanna work on it right now."

"Okay. Do you need-- what do you need? You think maybe if we sit and work like we're meditating it will go better?"

"No. I don't think anything works as well as you staying close to me," he pushes his hands back into Chuck's hair. "Right here. I don't care if you fall asleep. I don't care."

Chuck hooks the idea suddenly. Sam feels him find it. "Woah," he breathes. "Woah, wow. Okay. Alright." He lays down on top of Sam and pets a hand down and down and down his side. "Wow, I don't like thinking about this," he finally says.

"Neither do I. But I think it's true. I think it would have meant the end of you. You had no idea you were saving your own life when you studied that book and gave it to me and asked for the binding. You built it, sweetheart, but you built it to protect me and instead it protects us both. I mean. It already did. And I'm finding out about your head more and more and I've never been closer to someone and I never wanna stop discovering what you mean. But that wasn't the intention. And it let me save you, anyway. Without it. Without it, I would have. I would have had to watch." The words start sticking in his throat.

There would have been nothing for him to do. Nothing for him to repair. No part of his own consciousness threaded through Chuck's for him to hang on to and comfort and heal.

Chuck makes all kind of nervous movements with his hands, stretching his fingers and not knowing where to go and then he just... his fingers tap down on Sam's temples and then he brushes his hair back, holds his head. "Close your eyes, Sammy. I'm right here. You don't have to come to me."

Sam wants to stare. Sam doesn't wanna close his eyes. He wants Chuck to be there with him. But when he blinks he feels drowsy and slow and Chuck's there, pressed against his consciousness like--

He isn't in the hallway. He's where he starts off, in his mental motel room, and he doesn't have to go anywhere. Because Chuck has come to him. Chuck has come to find him where his own thoughts start. Where he's never bothered to build anything or store stuff but it feels like Chuck is there.

He's there.

And so when he really sinks into it like they do when they practice, he doesn't move forward. Chuck is the one pressing until he's in Sam's side of the bind and he's in Sam's motel. He looks to the dresser and Sam looks, too. Chuck picks up a tiny box and Sam can see that it's _his_ box. The engagement ring box. Chuck has it, still. He'll find it floating around in one of their bags every so often. Sometimes there are safety pins in there. Once there was a quarter. Once there was a sim card. Once there was a paper from a fortune cookie.

Sam opens his eyes.  
"Sweetheart," he breathes.

"I'll teach you. We don't have to make a memory palace out of some random room, though. We should make it our house. And we should share rooms. We should be able to find each other there. That way it won't just be roots. It'll be all the walls. We'll never have to lose each other. We'll always feel comfortable there." He opens his eyes to look back at Sam. "I get what Cas was teaching you about heaven physics. I can do this. We need to follow each other. We need to work on it. But. But maybe I have a better handle on it. And it can be my job for a while. I followed you so I could get better. You fixed my wall. Let me build your house like you're building our real one. Follow me for a while."

"I'm so sorry we're hunting again," he doesn't even mean to say it. Chuck shakes his head and kisses him. Tells him it's okay. When Sam looks to sink into the bind again, Chuck has pulled a key from the ring box. The dark transition to the hallway is behind him but now it's a door.

Chuck hands him the key.


	11. i just learned your face, but it is bound to change

It takes two more days for Dean to get himself into a fight he can't punch his way out of. Cas calls Sam at the hotel, voice pointed, demanding, and therefore clearly panicking.

After he gets the details, Sam hangs up and crosses the room, but before he can take Chuck's hand to tell him, Chuck is already pulling salt shells from a box in his bag and loading his sawed-off. He pauses when Sam presses all along his back and reaches around to cup his jaw, press his nose into Chuck's hair. When Sam closes his eyes, he doesn't have to do anything but turn from the dark of his eyelids to the sparse main room of the fortress. He crouches in front of Chuck in a plush armchair in their unfinished living room where the bind takes him now.

The same place the bind takes Chuck. The shared space they've been building across their connection.

Chuck accepts his seeking hands across the bind and says aloud, "Don't stress or try to stretch too far. I'll be right here when you get back."

He means for Sam not to try to cross the bind at a distance.

And he means that, someday, they'll have practiced enough to do so. But today is not that day.

Sam breathes him in and accepts that.

He hasn't been away from Chuck in days. He's been in the hotel rooms with him, spending most his time showing Alex how they research, how they fake credentials and access accounts and quietly break laws to get answers.

Sam has started teaching.

And, when he isn't teaching or eating or sleeping, he hasn't been hunting. He's been here, building their bind into a new shape. He's okay with it fitting the actual shape of their house-in-progress. He has realized the merit of growing at the same pace.

At this point he has no idea what his mental landscape is going to look like without Chuck in the vicinity. Without having him there to touch and hold and meet across the distance.

But he can't dwell on it, he has to go. And right now. Because Dean needs him. Chuck understands. "Just be careful," Chuck touches his hand in reality and in the bind and Sam knows he intends for it to be soft, flowing, the deep ease of their connection, but that generates fire in him. The flames flood him from the point; fuel him. There's nothing he wouldn't do to protect his family and come home to this again.

Careful, yes. And cunning. Tricky. Mean and fast. To come home and to get Dean back safe to Cas.

Sam squishes Chuck for a moment and lets him go to pull on his shoes and jacket. Chuck loads his bag with clean weapons and new ammo. Hands it over and sends him off with a key card and a kiss to the head.

"Love you," he says into Sam's skin.

"Love you back," he pulls his hand down Chuck's solid spine one more time. "Eat quick and then stick to your phone, okay?"

Chuck nods.

Alex tolerates Sam looping her ponytail once and letting go. "You stick to the next case unless someone calls to pull you off," he reminds her.

"Yeah. I know." She hesitates. "Be careful."

What an unexpected thrill those two little words can be - every time he's reminded that the kids care for him. That he's not just a looming taskmaster or a big goof to them. He's family; he would be missed.

Sam nods. Chuck walks him to the elevator.

Sam watches the door close him out.

Feels weird almost. Feels like he shouldn't be doing this.

Well.  
That's established, actually.

He breathes through it. And goes to the rescue anyway.

«»

"I should order you not to do this alone," Charlie tries again while Cas collects half the salt rounds from each person in the group.

"You guys already took a shot at it. Give me one, okay? Give me one hour and then come in after me if you don't hear word. But. Don't come in if you start hearing my voice from all over."

"Sam," she grabs his elbow.

"One hour. Unless you really wanna order me to take you with. But it's gonna be more efficient this way. And Dean doesn't have much time to spare, here."

He simply walks out of reach and leaves them behind with the cars. Cas keeps pace with him for a ways down the road.

"He sounds... very much like he's in distress. I couldn't tell the difference," he swallows, hesitates, shame coloring his words. "I couldn't tell-"

"I know. And that's where you and me are different. Not that it's gonna be _easy_ to hear, but I just. I guess I've got more practice," he loads his pockets as Cas unloads shells from his own. The last object Cas hands over is a lighter. Dean's lighter.

Fuck.  
Okay.

"Go back with the others."

Cas shakes his head. "I'll wait at the fence line but I can't be down the road."

Sam understands. He shoulders the strap on his shotgun and climbs over the low fence at the property line. He feels Cas stare at his back as he walks on.

Going in on his own is the best bet. The spirit is projecting Dean's voice trying to lure them back in as a trap.

Sam is the only one who can tell the difference in the way Dean sounds. He's got an ear for it. Something in his heart clenches when Dean says "Sammy" a certain way. He's positive he'll know the difference between parroting and the real thing.

He can tell. He can.

The place was built over an old graveyard so the spirit in charge of the estate has been using death echoes to fool people into coming in or getting the hell out. Whatever he pleases. And Claire came up against him. So she played him until Cas came around the corner and blasted him with rock salt. She wormed his motive out of him and did her job. They all did their jobs to the best of their abilities.

Sam can tell the difference between ghosts and echoes, too.

The spirit seems to be able to show the gruesome deaths; stop and start and rewind them. And scatter them far and wide, all over the property.

They're distractions. He knows this. So he's going in with the benefit of a clear head, no exhaustion, and no creep crawling up his spine yet.

He pulls his phone out, dials home. He hasn't stretched since he left the hotel; hasn't even gone wandering around his own mental motel room. Sam can't think about that right now -- but he does need this.

"Hey," Chuck says.

"Dean only has four hours to finish the case before it breaks his two-week spree. This needs to be done fast. We need this win."

"Okay." And? – he waits for it.

"I'm going in on my own."

Chuck hesitates on the other end. "Is it the way this _has to_ go? You can't even take one of the kids?"

"I've only got four hours to pull his ass out of the fire and get his lighter back into his hand. Solve the case, dig a grave, get the win."

"And the others couldn't do it."

"They fell for the trick already. I'm not going to," he says, knowing it in his bones. He's nearly all the way across the field, now. The brush near the old house is getting sparse. It's harder for things to grow with so much death around.

Chuck is a breath on the other end. "I could stay on the line."

"I don't wanna have to worry about what you'll hear. I told them, if they don't hear from me in an hour, they can come back in. But it just took three minutes to cross the field," he pauses, crouches in the last of the tall grass. "And, size of this house? I'll give myself thirty to sweep it. Tops, even if there's a basement. And I don't think there is, this close to the gulf. I can do this," he says, completely sure, "but if you feel like you need to, call Cas in thirty-three minutes and tell him to head in."

He owes his husband a failsafe like that if he's gonna go do what is, in all matter of fact, a real dumbass move. Like, for as positive as he is in his abilities, Sam is too old to be sweeping places himself - this is risky behavior. This is the exact kind of thing Charlie should be at his back for. If this wasn't so specific to him and his brother, he wouldn't be doing it alone.

Sam just owes this offer to Chuck.

"If I feel like I have to, I will," Chuck understands what he's being told here. And that, otherwise, in 33 to 35 minutes, Sam plans to have Dean back and be pushing forward to end the case before the deadline. "Okay. Love you. Go work."

"Love you, too," he hangs up, turns the phone completely off. Can't risk the distraction. And he's got no watch, he'll have to feel the timing out.

He gets eight steps forward again before he can hear Dean's voice calling for Cas.

That isn't him.

The way it repeats is too consistent. No exhausted tapering, no desperate pitching. Just in getting into the house, he can hear three variations and one where Cas's name is cut off the end. He calls for Claire, Claire, Claire like an echo of himself.

It isn't Dean.

And this spirit may already have eyes on Sam, but Dean would let it cut out his tongue before he gave up Sam's name.

So when the projection of Dean's voice starts yelling, "trip" he's only confused for a moment. "Trip! Help!" He's on the stairs. That's not what it's about, though.

Dean told it his name is Trip.  
Third floor. That's where he'll find Dean.

He can't keep the stairs from creaking under his feet, betraying him, so Sam keeps his finger on the trigger, and continues heading up.

«»

Sam stays with the whole family until Dean scratches this dry patch of land off the list  
Because it's what's necessary.

There is, installed deep within Sam, a complete understanding of this process. A part of his confidence comes from hunting. The surety of his movements, the knowledge of the strength within himself, a steady practice in is hands.

Hunting will always be an essential installation. A part of his make-up. His history. His bloodlines are tied tight into this practice. He knows it to be ancient, sacred, necessary.

He will come to it when he is called. He will untangle things. Solve the problems. Show the kids how he did it. He will save a life if he feels he has no choice but to step in.

However. The weights and measures are set correctly now. This is not the hinge his life balances on. This is one side of the scale. Hunting is _not_ the only reason he's alive.

So Sam doesn't hunt like he has work to do. He hunts like he has someone to get home to. Someplace to be.

Sam does not need his heart to be in the hunting. It can be in his friends, in the kids, in his brother, in Chuck. He doesn't have to worry, anymore, that he doesn't know where he belongs after the dust settles and the guns are hung up.

They are finding it. One brick and one breath at a time. Sam and Chuck have a lot of the pieces and they're putting them together, building the rest.

The most important thing about every hunt is getting back to his husband in one piece. That wasn't some deep meaning he had to uncover - it was a purpose he had to choose.

His fried brain is the burnt, rich-black soil where their roots are anchored. His head has that value. Somehow, he nurtured those roots so well they took hold of Chuck so he would never have to let him go. Chuck found the bind, their family made the bind work, and Sam may not even have the best grip on how to envision it. He's still a tad bit mentally... constipated. But. He is the ground that keeps the bind alive. Chuck is the sky. Full of sun and rain. Something to reach up to.

In his heart he feels the work they unconsciously put in, caring for each other until they grew a love like Sam hasn't felt for anyone.

This isn't like what he feels for Dean. Or the loss and longing filling the hole where his need for Mom could have been. It is galaxies beyond the deference he just gave to his father to get by. And he's loved others, but he didn't have these opportunities with them. Didn't take these chances and these leaps with them.

He wants to go home to the person he's run the distance with.

Drops the guns back in the trunk at the end. Shakes the dust out of Dean's hair and laughs at him a little. Lets the others go meet Alex for cheese fries and beers to celebrate. Takes his truck back to the hotel and quietly keys back into the room in case Chuck fell to dozing.

He pets Chuck's head on the couch pillow. His heart fills too-full with love and he takes Chuck's glasses off gently, pushes away the books and pulls him to sit so he can hold him tight.

Chuck wakes but makes no comment. Just a happy hum and a hug.

Sam doesn't want to always be in his headspace with Chuck. This tangible stuff is more important to him because here is the man who cares for him, touches him, always-always-always picked up the phone for him. Those first periods of doubt about Chuck's interest were pretty much all Sam had to suffer. There wasn't teasing, Chuck didn't rope him along, he wasn't indecisive.

Winona is a cold-distant memory for Sam. Another reason, among many, that Chuck could have stopped picking up the phone and turned away.

Chuck doesn't let other people put words in Sam's mouth, though. To him, Winona just happened because Sam wasn't quick enough to say, "Okay, I like you, so here's everything I need you to know about me."

It was a painful, inconvenient little pause that could have gone worse. And Chuck actually allowed for more of that. He has put himself into a position where Sam could so easily lie to him. Chuck didn't pry - if Sam had wanted to lie and keep some of his past quiet, Chuck would have let him.

But Sam didn't hide anything because it hurt. It would have hurt him to see Chuck's eyes when he took that trust in hand and pulverized it.

Sam is in love with the way Chuck has chosen to trust him. His eyes wide open, full knowledge of who Sam is. Sam's main job is to not betray that trust. He earns it. Every intimate, private moment worth cherishing. A treasure he gets to keep.

He needs to store another secret inside Chuck now. He worries about burdening him. But all Chuck seems to want in return is trust, too. Chuck has never turned around and told Dean some dark feeling about their family that Sam relayed to him, wishing he could have kept it inside rather than ever breathing it aloud. Chuck keeps Sam and his head safe. Lets him vent and keeps it private.

"Can I tell you something?"

Chuck kisses under his jaw. "Yeah."

"If this doesn't work, I don't know if I can promise to stay at the bunker until we fix it. I wanna go home to the fort even though I know how much work it still needs." He holds Chuck tight. Takes a deep breath. "I know we need Cas's wings to keep everyone safe? But I don't know if I can stay on the frontlines anymore. I mean I know-"

"You know you _can_ ," he fills in, "but you don't want your momentum to come back. You don't wanna have to step up to save the world. Because things have changed. Sammy, it's okay to go out on top."

"I have other jobs to do now."

Chuck nods against him. "We will still help out. That's just who we are. But you need me to take care of you for a while. You need to stop bouncing around for a while."

"I feel like I'm not gonna heal right, either, if I don't have you. I know that doesn't make any sense," he shrugs, at a loss. He just needs to pour himself into Chuck's hands. That's where it all gets interpreted for him.

And Chuck nods like he knows exactly what he's getting at. "Cas hasn't looked inside your head, Sam. We don't know if you got hurt when the bind got yanked at, too. You might have. So we need to work on it. If this doesn't fix Castiel's wings, we'll all take a break to figure it out. We'll hit the books. We'll go find some other hunters if we have to. The last storage lockers. I know where some hunters used to live and their hide-outs are kinda rotting away. We should-"

"Please don't right now. Let's not think about other people's brains," he drops his head to Chuck's shoulder to sigh and kiss at it over his shirt. "I'm home. You know what my head looks like without you?"

Chuck cocks his head and blinks, curious.

He'd finally looked, after he called Chuck to say he was okay and they were gonna hunt down the right gravestone, be finished for the night. "It looks like the motel. I can't find my way back home," he smiles and he knows it's sad and he knows he sounds pathetic. Just like he knows they'll get there eventually, but it won't be today.

Chuck reaches up to push his hair back and leans, pulling Sam down on top of himself.

Sam curls up around and on top of him. Blindly kicks his boots off and toes them from the end of the couch. Lets Chuck pet his head.

"Maybe you can't reach that far yet but it will happen. Maybe in a few years. We've been really impatient with ourselves. But we're healing up. And it _will_ happen. Close your eyes," he requests. Sam isn't looking up at him and he would prefer to keep his eyes open, keep staring at his hand he's pushing to wander up inside Chuck's shirt. But he does as he's told. "What do you want me to show you?"

"The door," Sam looks around his fake motel room. "I feel trapped. I still can't find you."

In the physical world, on the couch, he feels Chuck petting his head. He looks back around and the door is there. Sam sighs relief and finds the box on the dresser. The key inside. He opens the door.

Clutches Chuck's shirt.

He can come through the front door. He can find Chuck upstairs, in a bed that isn't-quite-theirs but theirs for now. Pages rain and disappear here when Chuck sleeps.

Sam feels Chuck pull the covers up over them as he climbs into the bed.

Chuck's not the proper size here yet. So Sam shakes him off a little, opens his eyes to lay there and hold him, sure that he'll be able to find their house when he returns to the bind. But. "I need real life, too. Where you're not so small. I wanna creep on you for a while," he grins.

Chuck gives a little _what can you do_ shrug and seems to present himself, settles into the cushions for Sam's viewing pleasure.

He runs his hand up under his shirt again. "I don't know how soon they'll get done," he admits, circling Chuck's belly with three fingers.

"Did Dean look okay?"

"Yeah."

"It'll probably be a while but... I mean not _that_ long. He's gotta be getting pretty tired of all this."

"They have to sleep," he agrees.

"Sam. I'm not opposed I just-"

He kisses Chuck. Hooks two fingers into his waistband. "A quickie, sweetheart."

"Our first quickie ended up lasting like three days."

He laughs because that is actually totally true. He was supposed to be in and out, back on the hunt in an hour.

Just couldn't leave him. Couldn't fucking do it.

Sam dips his hand lower, into his shorts to stroke him, wrap a hand around him and try to get him hard.

He huffs, amused. Hooks Sam's neck to kiss him.

There's that swelling feeling. Their history together feels so slow and long and romantic and well-won to Sam. He works the head like Chuck likes and rolls his hips against Chuck's thigh.

"Fuck," Chuck says into his mouth.

Automatically, Sam wants to kneel up between his legs and fuck him like the first time. He knows how tight it is. He wants the walls to rattle. He wants to hear Chuck so loud people probably get _jealous_. Wants to climb into bed and bruise his own knuckles gripping the headboard. Wants to feel Chuck's hands helplessly hanging onto his arms.

He grips just right and startles a moan out of Chuck.

But like the first-first time he gets too hard, too fast. His sweetheart drives him wild. He scrabbles their clothes out of the way and leans over him to roll them together in his hand.

Chuck's hands are more confident now, too, and run down to grab his ass, fingers of his left hand taking a real hold and flashing this _feeling_ through Sam. Yanking an image from nowhere: of Chuck pulling his ass open and jamming his face in there, soft cheeks at his ass. Mouth _breathing. Tonguing. Moaning._ His jaw working. Hands firm at Sam's hips.

Sam loses himself in a messy shudder. Lets go to lean over him with both fists and drive them tight together as he comes.

Fuck. He could ask.  
He could ask and Chuck would probably look at him all sex-dazed and then his vision would clear and he'd go hungry. He would do it.

It was a frantic, fast hunt, though, and he's too self-conscious about how dusty and dirty and sweaty he is. Chuck stops kissing him to let a cry out and--

Sam can't resist. They're too close and he's never shown an overtly sexual image over the bind before but he can see their bed and he can see Chuck in it, can see this happening there, can show Chuck--

"Oh my god yes," rushes out of his mouth, "Sam, yes. Yes, Sam. Do you want- oh fuck, oh fuck if you stop I can- I- I'll-"

No.  
No he.  
He can't, but.  
He can show Chuck this idea.

Sam crashing his head into the mattress and jerking himself off while Chuck works at his ass and--

Chuck grabs his ass hard and drives up against him, head thrown back. The way he just _looks_ when he's coming makes Sam wanna press his teeth into his throat. Take and offer up at the same time. He rushes this feeling across their connection and it makes Chuck come and shake and grab hard enough to bruise. His come jetting up between them, roping across where Sam will plant his hand later, holding Chuck tight. Feeling his trust and guarding him in the night.

He has to get his breath back and then he whines a little, soft and sensitive. Sam awkwardly gets their clothes off the rest of the way and holds him close. "You wanted me to?"

Sam wavers a little. But. "Yeah. I think so."

"I can still do it. Maybe they won't be back so soon."

"I'm sweaty, I'm gross. I'm a mess. We'll have time when we're home, Chuck."

"But,..." he hesitates a little. He touches the base of Sam's neck where sweat clings or creeps down his chest. "I really _like it_ when you're sweaty."

Sam rolls his eyes, pulls him to sit. "I know I also smell like gunpowder and old-house-crud. We're gonna rinse off. We have to be up in the morning, too."

Chuck still insists on giving him something. He calls it "easing into it" - he gets behind Sam in the shower and kisses the few fingertip bruises he left by clutching his ass so hard. He pets Sam's thigh while he does, until it's weirdly too much and Sam's breath rushes and he has to grab for his hand. Pull him back up.

"It's okay," he insists before Chuck can say anything. "I'm okay I just. Not right now."

"Okay," Chuck agrees. "But you deserve to have your ass kissed with the best possible intentions," he smiles a little and Sam laughs, turns the water off.

They can already hear voices next door when the noise of it cuts out.

Settling down. Ending another day in the grind.

It feels good to dry Chuck off and get him clothed and tuck him in. Feels good to be free to ignore everything else until morning.

«»

Donna has stayed as long as she could. She has to follow Jody back north. But she returns to their hotel, across town, before starting the drive up.

Sam has to find jeans in the early-morning dark and feel his way to the door. He forgot a key card so he toes the trash can forward to keep it wedged open.

"Donna?" he steps out into the hall rubbing his eyes.

"Morning!!" she says, too-bright for sanity. "Look, I was packing and I damn near forgot I had these," she pulls a wrapped-up shopping bag from her big purse. "Make sure you get those to your hubby," she hands it over and pats his arm. "Ought to be some fun at least. A change from all those lore books and all this," she waves away their entire situation like a spider web, "spooky mess."

Sam feels his eyes go wide and then squints again in the light of the hallway. Feels like magazines in the bag? Or something. He gives her a hug and sees her off at the elevator before returning.

Chuck is still asleep, so he sets the bag down and tries to decide if he should go for a run. Maybe hit the hotel gym. Charlie is already rattling around next door. Might as well. He knocks and they go for a run and spar in a nearby clearing.

On the way back, Sam breathes deep, closes his eyes for a few paces, feels that lightness in his mental motel. He has a theory that it means Chuck is awake. A theory easily proven - he could call. But, just in case, waits to get back to the room, himself.

Chuck is sitting up on the end of the bed turning over the pages of a comic book. The bag Donna dropped off is next to him. Sam pries his shoes off and tosses his shirt. Comes over to see.

"Comic books. In Swedish," Chuck looks up. "Where did you get these?"

"Donna dropped 'em off. I didn't know that's what they were," he smiles. "Can you read them?"

"Well, yeah. This is nice. If I can't write I can read something I actually give a shit about. Something engrossing." He puts the comic aside and Sam comes down to be kissed.

"Really nice of her. We'll get you subscriptions to comics from other countries. How about that?"

"Okay. Can we do something before we open the door today?"

"Sure," they're just standing there so Sam decides to pull his clothes off, too. Chuck looks at him funny. He's not great with standing around naked. "We need a real shower," Sam coaxes, tries to draw him to the bathroom again.

Chuck shrugs and goes, scratches at his head, a little awkward.

"What's up?" Sam gets their stuff and helps him into the stall.

"I was just. I know you were doing life-and-death stuff last night so. I don't want it to sound like I was being flippant about that. I was just trying not to freak. I was trying to give you the time you asked for."

"Okay? I'm sorry I had to handle it that way at all, I-"

Chuck waves him off, "So I was just. Thinking about house stuff."

Yes. Good. "Like designs? Colors?"

"Mm. Some of it." He moves around Sam to get the water temperature right and stalls until Sam's hair is wet. "Want me to?" he gets the shampoo.

"Yeah," definitely. He's gonna have to get on his knees for Chuck to reach him, though, so he braces himself on the wall and Chuck helps him down. Tells him to close his eyes and starts washing his hair for him while the hot water beats on his back. Eases him, shoulders to thighs. "So just. Let me show you in the bind and you can? Um. Like. Tell me if you don't like it."

He takes hold of Chuck's calves to keep a solid grip on the bind and manages to navigate back to the house on his own. And he feels like he ought to go to the kitchen so he simply turns and there he is.

The windows are where they placed them, the appliances are what Dean's getting for him, the cabinets sit where they agreed upon. The back door out of the kitchen is now a narrow set of french doors, black and stark against the all-white of the kitchen. The cabinet handles are black, too, as are the fixtures, dark against the simple, single-beveled cabinets Chuck has been building.

He wants to paint them white. He wants the daylight to bounce from the windows all over the kitchen. He wants the light fixtures high enough that Sam will need to stand on a chair to change the bulbs.

There's enough counter space. It extends all the way around instead of leaving a gap at the west end. He seems to have vetoed Dean's idea for a kitchen island once and for all.

The windows are the same black-outline style as the doors. The counters are a light gray but he doesn't seem to know what they're made of.

The wood of the floors is echoed by the wood of the exposed beams across the ceiling. Dean won that one at least.

It's beautiful. This is someplace Chuck wants to spend his time writing. He sees a stool and their coffeemaker set at one counter, below one of the windows. One moment there's a stack of cookbooks there but when Sam looks back they're swept away, like Chuck didn't want him to notice.

The kitchen table isn't there, on the east end, yet. He gets the feeling that he could walk into that space and open the doors and let a breeze in. It doesn't feel perfect without a table and chairs, yet, but it's still pretty freaking spectacular.

Sam absorbs the feel of the room for another moment. Blinks out of the bind with a question in his mouth, but-

"I don't know. I don't know about the table," Chuck says, rinsing his hair out, "I just really don't like the island," he's steadfast on that one.

"It means making more cabinets," Sam points out. "We could do tall ones. Pantry space."

"Yeah, I know. I'm ready for it. Is that all okay with you?"

"It's fucking... it's just wonderful, hermit crab. I'm so happy you know what you want it to look like. I'm so- I can't believe you _showed_ me all that. It's amazing. Don't worry about the table. We'll find the right one."

It's clear he is worried about it. It's an important feature of the whole space to him. But for now, Sam can look forward to the kitchen being wide and bright. Plenty of storage space. Windows. Even a french door full of windows. He loves it. He loves it more that Chuck has put his heart into it. Has filtered it through his soul and come up with something so tall and light.

This feels like Chuck's first real piece of ownership of their property. He knows that what belongs to Sam belongs to him, but this feels different in the bind. Sam can tell that it's why he's hesitant. "Hey," he blinks up through the water until Chuck meets his eyes. "It'll be exactly how you _need_ it to be. Got it? It looks fantastic to me. Let's go with your vision, okay?"

Chuck sighs. And nods. And finishes up. Sam closes his eyes and looks up, in the bind, follows the exposed wooden beams from the kitchen out to the main room where things are a little darker. Where Chuck's idea of things isn't so complete. The wood floors keep flowing up to the limit of the entryway, where there's tile. But the main room feels like Chuck is waiting for more input from him.

He'll try harder.

The bind makes him feel like Chuck has an idea for the mud room and the garage. So he follows and sees. They discuss; Sam approves. (Fuck approval - Sam _loves_ it.)

And he vows to work on having improvements of his own to show to Chuck soon.

They're getting there.

«»

It's not being handed to him, but Sam is deciding to take this anyway: The opportunity to Get Out.

Since he stepped up to save his ass, Dean assumes Sam's participation the next day. So Sam takes him aside and gives him all the research he'll need and helps him weapon-up and says, "Listen: you'll do great." And the team heads out for the day. Without Sam, yet again.

He hasn't left town yet, so at least Dean isn't being stubborn about it. And Dean he can't say he needs more help - he has so much help he has to assign the ladies to the next hunt pretty often. But Dean's gonna kick his toe into the carpet every time Sam doesn't come. He's gonna look a little put out and Sam is just going to have to get used to it. He's more capable of change than Dean, so he's the one with the responsibility to cut himself off and stand aside.

He'll still knock on doors, he'll still visit the morgue. And that's where he was when he got the call. He showed up just as the fight had ended, an hour after he planned to be back at the hotel, done for the day.

They have three days of hunts left when Dean and Cas bring home the new baby.

Aamir is fifteen. He grew up in a haunted house in Galveston and he's the only one in the family Dean could save.

They didn't even catch wind of the effects until this past weekend's funeral announcements. His aunt now dead, six months to the day after his father, who was killed six months to the day after his grandfather, who was killed six months to the day after his grandmother. Since he could remember, they were all the family Aamir had in the U.S. and he's got no idea who else there is - he was unhappy, never paid attention to them. Hated them for what was done to him, steadily losing his hearing. It's only at about ten percent, now, and, far as Cas can tell, that's genetic, not something the spirit did to him; in other words, not something Cas can change. He'll be completely deaf one day and he's had an agonizing time growing up, getting used to that fact.

He has a quiet mutt who Dean doesn't even glance at twice before he takes his place next to Aamir on the end of the bed. He's already learned the rules about Lori, the assistance dog, and he's willing to put up with her for the kid.

Dean and Cas sit with Aamir and ask if he knows anyone - _anyone_ \- he could go to. But he just doesn't. He's just alone and at the mercy of the state and... there have been questions about his record and... he doesn't have his birth certificate...

He just doesn't know what to do. Aamir has never known any other home than South Texas and the few relatives he had here.

And who would know what to do in these circumstances? He's not mourning or crying or inconsolable. He just looks like he's run out of batteries. He doesn't know what to do. He's got nothing left.

Late into the night, still dusty and bloody from the hunt, Cas gives Dean a look over Aamir's shoulder.

And Sam wants, suddenly, more than anything on earth, to hold his husband. He's jealous of how Dean & Cas look to one another, the silent, instant understanding. The way they look back down to Aamir together knowing what comes next.

Cas taps Aamir's knee to get his attention. Signs and speaks to him. "Would you like to stay with us?"

The dog shifts at Aamir's ankle when he looks to Dean. He nods. He's short on words in general but the relief and the intention are clear: He wants this. He's been exposed to the Winchesters for just eight hours but he knows what he's walking into. And he wants to stay.

The girls didn't ask them to offer it, though it seems to have occurred to everyone throughout the day, but not even Sam was going to propose it. And here it is anyway.

Aamir's going back to the hotel with Sam and Charlie. Dean and Cas act like they're not gonna stay up another two hours to hit the 24-hour Wal-Mart and find him some clothes, but they are.

Aamir is exhausted and Charlie insists on giving him her bed and taking the couch for herself. She takes care of him and then pulls the adjoining door mostly-shut.

Sam turns home. Looks for Chuck in the dark with his hands before he seeks the bind. "I know I told you to go to bed but I'm bugging you again."

Chuck wakes, yawns, pushes his hands up Sam's arms.

"Hey."

"Hey. You okay?"

"Yeah," he kisses Chuck.

"What happened?"

"They wanna keep him. He wants to stay."

"That might be best. We don't know how much he picked up living with a poltergeist that long. There might be some stuff he can't unsee."

"Yeah," Sam sounds sad even to himself.

"Look: Maybe we can't replace his family but we can do right by him. Dean can. He'll be good."

"I know. They'll both be great at it. Dean and Cas both want this. They'd take everybody home if they could."

Chuck huffs a laugh and runs his hands up to grip Sam's hair. "You're clean."

"Didn't go out. Just had to help with door-to-doors with Claire when Dean called but. I didn't go out with them to hunt. Just went so I knew Dean was okay."

"Okay. You need a shower or-"

"Need _you_ ," he descends on Chuck again. Reaches over blindly to get the lamp because he doesn't really want the bind right now, either. He wants this thing, this _real-real_ thing they're made up of. This family that fits in his arms. This person who knows what he's feeling before they even share a look.

He felt it keenly when Chuck wasn't at his side like Cas was there to tell Dean that this big step was okay. Sam watched them be a family and felt oddly on the outside of it again and so he holds what he needs in his arms and feels real once more. Connected. Like part of a combined unit.

"Let's go. Let's just go home," he breathes into Chuck's mouth.

"Three days. Just three more and everybody can rest and we can know for sure we'll all be safe as long as Cas is around. I know you wanna go home but _knowing for sure_ is worth the wait. I'll go out hunting with you next time if it's what you need."

Fuck. He would do that. He would drag Chuck out, still recovering, just because he needs him close.

No.  
Better to say 'no' next time.  
Better to keep trying to get used to it.

He can load the weapons and send the away team out for three more days. He can look after Aamir and show him and Alex the research ropes.

It's okay to have grown up and into a new role. It's okay to change into this.

They kiss for a while until Sam can't stifle a yawn. He gets up and changes into comfy jeans and they settle down to sleep.

«»

Alex is there to knock on the doors and wake them up in the morning. Three final hunts. She looks like she has an idea but she holds off on it at the sight of Aamir.

He introduces himself, speaking first, then offering to let Charlie and Sam fill in the gaps in his story for Alex.

When Chuck wanders out of their room, hesitant, Sam pulls him close by the hand. "This is Chuck," he says as clearly as possible. "My husband."

Yeah, he'll never get tired of making casual introductions that way.

Aamir writes it down as a question, just to make sure he's clear on it: **Sam, Chuck, married?**

Sam nods.

"And Dean and Cas said they live in Kansas. You live with them?" he asks aloud.

Chuck shakes his head and steps forward and... begins signing. Because if it's a language, he's got it lying on the floor of his hallway somewhere. "South Dakota."

Aamir definitely looks surprised that another person signs in their family, but it helps put him at ease faster. Alex and Charlie watch them closely while they talk, trying to pick the motions up.

Sam's so fucking proud of him. He gets walloped with a brainful of this stuff and he just... uses it to connect their family. He tries not to get in the way, hanging on to Chuck's hip. Loving him so damn much.

So yeah. This is good. Chuck has someone else to talk to, to muddle through his head. Aamir will have a home when they get back to Kansas, and he's got Chuck and Cas to talk through while a gaggle of very willing hunters try to pick up his language and draw him in.

This is gonna work out.

After some breakfast, Alex explains that she's ready to be in the field now that the research is pretty well set up for the last leg of their race.

That gives Sam and Charlie pause. "You're totally sure about that?" Charlie checks. "We'd like the help but you haven't really wanted to step in and that's been fine. Do you-- are you _sure?_ " she stresses.

Alex crosses her legs where she sits. Straightens her spine. "Cas helps us all. Yeah. I'm sure. I mean he's an angel. Maybe if he was fully-powered to begin with, none of that stuff with A-- with the demon would have happened. Maybe if he had all the power he needed to see through it. And also, I mean, he helps all of us. This is important. So," she shrugs, "I'm sure, yeah."

Since she insists, when everyone else arrives, they all split their assignments. Aamir has questions about this - endless questions - and Dean is working through Cas trying to pick up signs to talk with him.

"It's fine, Dean. I can understand you," Aamir tries to wave him off. "I can understand all of you, it's just," he motions, "I need it _clear_ sometimes."

But Dean insists. They all file out, toting Aamir with. And Sam and Chuck stand still in the room as the waves recede.

Chuck stares at the door. "We could go home. Or, I mean, go ahead to the bunker if you want," he offers into the sudden silence. Looks up to him.

"Nah. I mean, as soon as we leave town, something will go horribly wrong, right?"

Chuck shrugs, noncommittal.

"Well we could-" Sam starts before he thinks.

Chuck just cocks his head.

"We could. I mean we could set everything up for the spell. But like. Tomorrow. You know we don't have to leave today."

He thinks about how nice it would be to hit the open road and be that much closer to home. That much closer to the end of this unintended journey. But.

"Tomorrow," he swallows it down. "Let's talk to Dean and Charlie about it tomorrow."

"So. Since all the research is done. Um. You wanna-"

"I mean we could look up a couple more, just in case, and-"

"Sam," Chuck's still staring, narrow-eyed up at him.

"Yeah?"

He just walks off, across to the other room. "Come get naked with me and then I'm taking you on a date."

It feels wrong to be considering a long session of fooling around, followed by ice cream, when he knows the rest of the family is out beginning the day's hunt and tomorrow's footwork.

But.

This is all he wants.

It was supposed to be one hunt and then home again. They were supposed to pull back. Sam is sick of the grind. Sam is...

checked out, pretty much.

They have frozen yogurt at a place that's surprisingly packed for the season. And they do their laundry for the rest of the day.

And they drive back to Kansas in the morning.

«»

With the bunker to themselves, Sam just wants to sit in the kitchen and watch his husband write and make meals to share and drag him off to bed to make a mess of his skin. He misses, dearly, that crystalline time before Aiden's hunt when they were close, quiet, and ravenous for each other. Attached at the mouth, dirty and beautiful.

That time was stolen from them. He wants it back.

Chuck appears to as well, looking up from tasks to catch him staring, the corners of his eyes softening. Little smiles and warm feelings. But they have to run around for fresh spell ingredients and then Dean sends ahead this massive, celebratory grocery list for them to pick up for the family's return. Cas has them set up Aamir's new bedroom and, for some reason, asks them to empty out one of the large rooms on the lower level.

They stay on task. And take the opportunity to box up specific volumes that will one day sit safe upon their shelves in the fortress.

Sam stops short at the way the idea comes to him so plainly.

The fortress. Their fortress. Home.

Two more hunts have to go off without a hitch. But home is almost in sight.

He's kneeling over a box, frozen, books in his hands, staring at Chuck. At the soft curve of his shoulder and his sleeves pushed up, wiry arms cherishing these volumes because they mean something to Sam. Because they belong on the shelves _at home_.

Chuck, who he gets to have and to hold and nothing will part them.

If Death should come, they'll have Cas to keep them connected.

Sam gets this.  
He _gets_ this.

It is his to keep. A house and a spouse. A whole life to populate with new habits and ways to use his expertise.

He can't be scared that he isn't gonna do this right. He's been practicing this, too. Committing to it full-time is the trick. It doesn't itch not to be out in the field, having Dean's back. But he feels guilty - feels like it ought to at least tickle his conscience.

Bobby stayed out of the field. Ellen did. Mom did, before it came to find her. If the world needs them, it knows where to find them. But he has a gate to keep it out. A fence and a foundation with wards set in cement.

He can swing this. They can swing this.

He is-- more than anything he's terrified that he'll get a call one day: _Without you here to get his back, your brother died. He bit dust one final time. We couldn't save him._

But, closer than any of them, Dean has Cas. Cas knows it's his job to take this as seriously as Sam would. And to start giving Dean reasons to stay home. Dean needs to start working on lesson plans as much as Sam.

But he fears that, as long as Dean keeps hunting, he'll have an icy spike of fear piercing his center, this hook in him connected to his brother that tells him no one else moves as instinctively with Dean as he does.

He finally drops the books in the box when he feels Chuck there, trying to pry them from his hands. "Hey?" Sam can feel him trying to draw him into the main room of their home, that incomplete projection in his head where he belongs and where he wants to be.

(But sometimes still feels like he shouldn't be allowed to have.)

"I don't need you to say it. I can- I can get there on my-- I know that it's gonna be okay, I just-"

"Shh," Chuck folds his hands together and takes them to hold in his own. "I'm gonna say it anyway. We repeat it like a mantra if we have to."

"Okay."

"We're going home. Everybody's gonna live."

"We're going home," Sam repeats. "Everybody's gonna live. We'll be fine." He finally snaps his eyes to Chuck's. "I love you."

"I know. I love you, too. Come on," he tugs, "let's break up the work. This is too much kneeling for my old-man knees. You, too. Let's hit the stores going west this time, get the rest of the stuff on the list. Get some new light bulbs that won't kill the world. Aamir is a modern kid. He deserves not to breathe in vaporized mercury or whatever. I know you want to get the perfect dog food for Lori."

Sam lets his husband rescue him from his own head.

Chuck drives so Sam can call Dean on the way for an update. All is well and Aamir knows a lot about local lore. "Cas says when he gets his wings back, maybe he'll be able to heal my cruddy old hands up a little deeper so it's easier for me to do the um. The letters. The um." Sam hears him snapping. "Fingerspells. The fingerspelling so him and Aamir can teach me. I know he can lip-read, like, okay I get it. But. I should be able to do this for him."

Holy shit. Him and Cas are really such good dads. It's ridiculous. Dean is gonna be so happy fucking fingerspelling things like some goddamn goof. This is gonna thrill him.

It thaws that icicle jammed under his ribs.

"And hey, I mean, maybe with his suped-up mojo he can deal with your shoulder. Or Chuck's knee, you know? I mean. Maybe. We'll see."

Sam laughs. He doesn't get his hopes up for it. But who knows. This family is capable of all sorts of things he never expected.

«»

Sam is having a sweet, quiet time playing with Chuck's fingers as he sleeps. The light is low in here and he is sick of being underground already. Misses having Chuck in the sun, under their window, but he is loose and warm in his sleep. He is the same shape, physically, and, this morning at least, he is wondrously open mentally. Sam can drift into the hallway as if it were his own space. When Chuck feels comfortable, his fingers cling to Sam's and Sam is allowed to just love this for long, quiet minutes. The hand he extended to Chuck that he took up and clung to. They've been holding hands since the first morning they woke up tangled close together and.

He just loves these fingers.  
Softly kisses each as Chuck sleeps on. He wants to remember this moment when they're finally driving home and Chuck reaches for him across the seat. He never wants to forget how important this hand is. This hand that killed a vamp who came after him. That reached out to take him from Persephone's side. This hand that reached back out to him and pulled him into a fucking perfect shell. Where he's loved unconditionally and never lied to and actively protected.

He loves holding hands. It's so goddamn simple and it means so much. Means even more since it enables them to cross a metaphysical distance.

When Chuck hums awake and blinks slow, he tucks their fingers together and pulls them back apart slow. Lines up their fingertips and then presses flat, moving them to show Sam the size difference, grinning. Sam grins back. They both like their sizes and their significant other's sizes.

"You feel smaller than you are," Sam comments. "In your head I mean. Still."

Chuck pets his open palm, then traces the lines. He thinks about it. "Yeah I guess you feel like you're twice my size and. I just. Kinda like it. I probably don't weigh half as much, though."

He's been hinting, again, that while it's been nice having Sam pick him up, it's probably time to stop. Chuck doesn't wanna break him.

He knows where ignoring those warnings gets him, now. He doesn't intend to shrug off Chuck's wisdom. Sam clears his throat. "I hear you. I really do. But I'm pretty sure you're trying to give up something that makes you happy for my stupid shoulder. And I'm fine. But as soon as I hurt myself so bad that Cas has to fix me? That's when I'll stop. And not before. I really do know my body. I really do know I can handle a few more years of actually sweeping you off your feet. I'm not blowing you off. Thanks- I'm glad you're concerned. I mean, I know you are. I'm your husband, so, obviously," he shrugs one shoulder and determinedly does not grin, "I just like that as much as you do. So."

He pulls away and turns to pull Chuck over to straddle him.

He's a comfortable weight. Sam is so used to him. This is another thing that's been happening since day-one.

Chuck touches their fingertips together again and pushes Sam's hands up into the air like that. He squints, assessing. "You're having _anniversary feelings_ ," he says it like he discovered the flavor of Sam's thoughts by touching him.

They're still a week out from their first-kiss anniversary, but yeah. He really is. He's indulging and enjoying this feeling. Their amazing shared memories.

"I should've jumped you on the first day," Chuck says like, _oh well_.

Sam laughs and towers their hands as high as Chuck can reach.

"You were just being a good-guy. I knew you would be," he leans down between their arms to kiss Sam.

Mmm. Not _that_ good. Sam would gladly have fucked him the first day. Or like. Post-detox if he was getting the right signals. Maybe they did it right in waiting. But.

Sam didn't _have to_ wait.

"I'm a slut for this," Chuck sighs, getting his knees under himself, drawing their hands tight, and starting to roll his hips. He puts Sam's hands on them so he can feel the movement. Keeps clinging to his fingers. His head falls back before Sam expects and he moans loud.

"Well, thanks. You really are." He adjusts so Chuck is moving against him proper and his thighs can kind of support some of Chuck's weight if he wants.

Chuck lets go of his hands to push up Sam's sleep shirt and lean on his torso. Sam breathes and tenses, flexing a little, and feeling that under his palms makes Chuck moan again.

"Would you really have-" Sam's breath catches, "the first time, I mean?"

Chuck nods and closes his eyes to concentrate on feeling him. Basically to lean back all wanton and moan and make Sam's dick hard.

"How?" Sam asks into the sound of their breathing, unable to resist the story.

Chuck opens his mouth to pant and looks slightly uncomfortable so Sam grabs his hips and stops him, not ready to get his shorts out of the way yet.

Chuck blinks his eyes open.

"How?" Sam repeats low, like a demand but cloaking a temptation.

Chuck swallows a breath and moves his hands to Sam's neck.

Sam obliges immediately, sitting up under him. Then says his line: "Chu-"

He gets kissed and it tastes like the first time. Chuck is more familiar with him though, so he cheats, kissing him back and encouraging the biting more than usual.

Sam gasps, "Fuck. _Please_."

Maybe they're ditching the first-kiss script because this time "please" makes Chuck reach down and draw Sam out of his boxers.

Admittedly Sam wasn't this hard the first time.

Chuck strokes him some, then licks his palm and does it wetter.

"Fuck," Sam chokes out. Then remembers to grab his ass like he's supposed to. Only he grinds up into Chuck's fist, movement limited a little with Chuck still sitting on top of him.

Chuck spares the other hand to push his own shorts down his hip and Sam gets the message. Pulls them down in the limited space and-

A shocked moan from Chuck, breath getting caught. He dips down again to steal Sam's from him.

Sam pats back under the pillow and moans, disappointed to find no lube.

"Shit," Chuck gasps, letting his mouth go. "You better not be a good guy. You better fuck me. I need you."

"Have to find-" Sam is about to move but Chuck pushes him back down and crawls to the drawer.

Curses. Goes for the opposite drawer.

Practically falls back onto Sam, moaning and rutting, no luck in either place.

Sam pulls him out and strokes him, kisses him for a while.

Chuck breaks away, "Fuck," and gets up to take his clothes off, dive for the bags, and throw things until he finds some lube. Clings to it like it's precious.

Sam shucks his clothes before Chuck gets back on top of him, then he takes Chuck's thighs to settle him and takes the tube from him. He's getting a certain vibe here. "Sweetheart, why are we rushing?"

"Because I _need it_ ," he goes about his business in more of a hurry than usual, his grip impatient, his face too-serious.

"We're not... telling the story I thought we were?" Sam is a little confused but moves him so he can reach back and open him up.

Chuck rolls back, fucking Sam's fingers when he's up to two and Sam's mouth goes dry.

"This is the story," Chuck gasps, pounds his fist into the sheets once. "I waited my whole life to get fucked by you. I'm on your lap and I've been patient long enough." Both his hands slam to the mattress to find balance, grinding down and back both, his whole body begging for it.

"Holy fuck," Sam tries to stay calmer than him while maybe... prepping a little faster. "Did you really think that?"

He almost cries when he moans this time. Blindly kisses for Sam's mouth.

"'Kay," Sam says between their teeth, and finally guides Chuck back onto himself.

Chuck rides him like he's _shocked_ it's so good, arching into it and being louder than usual - way louder.

He's so fucking into it. He's squeezing Sam tight and rolling on his lap like-

He laughs. Laughs a breath and moans happily and smiles wide. His head falls back.

Sam gets a sudden transmission, like Chuck decided to show him how good it feels to get fucked this way. The bind is _sex_. A wet, heated hole where things just get _fucking dirty_ and Chuck could only love it more if Sam threw him over and just plowed him from behind.

Well, shit. That could be arranged.

He drags Chuck off and over and bends him. Plants his hands in the sheets and waits for him to be ready before he slams in rough. Chuck _yells_ and then doesn't stop making amazing noise. Sam reaches down to stroke him, needs to plant his other hand against the mattress for balance and Chuck grabs for it, swaying forward each time Sam thrusts. Until he's gripping Sam's arm, shaking and trying to hold still, babbling, "Right there. Right there?? Please???" And Sam's tight all around him, trying hard not to come yet, trying to get it just right for him.

Then comes his undoing: Chuck's pleading drops to little whispers he can just barely hear above his heart pounding, "Please fuck me, please make me come. Please? Please fuck me oh my god Sam, plea-"

Sam gets tight up inside him and barely leaves as he pounds away at him, hugging him close.

He's almost there and he wants-

He moves his hand to jerk Chuck's cock faster so he doesn't have a choice, can't hold back anymore. Comes in him when he goes tight and breathless. Watches up close as Chuck's back snaps taut, tense. Listens to his moans strangle off. And Sam strokes down, his hand getting tacky with Chuck's last pulses.

Fuck it. He takes a mouthful of Chuck's shoulder and plants his teeth in. Not hard, but wanting to. He pulls himself out to _shove_ back in one more time and Chuck judders and cries out and tries not to fall forward.

Sam tongues at his skin. Huffs into it. Then lets go. Noses up his neck to kiss it, trails down Chuck's back.

What were they fucking talking about?

Shit. This was supposed to be them fucking after the first kiss. Yeah. That... went off the rails.

"I don't think you would have called me again if I did that to you the first time," he pants. He pulls Chuck back against himself and bundles their right hands together so Chuck can--

 _Grip_. And fall apart a little when he pulls out. "I'm okay," he says before Sam can ask. "I'm okay. And we wouldn't have left the apartment for _a week_ if you had done that the first time," he corrects.

Sam pets his sides and draws him back to sit for a while. They're a tangled pile of limbs while he calms Chuck down and kisses the same spot on his head thirty damn times. "We'll be home for our anniversary next week. Remember when you asked me not to go anywhere?"

"I remember, Sammy."

"Remember when you told me 'learning by doing'? 'Piece by piece'?"

"We had to learn each other. We did pretty good."

"Remember when I'd kiss you and you'd tell me to do that one again? Or for me to pull you close? Or mute the tv so we could make out?"

Chuck finally laughs at him. "Yeah, I remember. I remember the whole day. You sentimental sap."

Yeah, he knows it's not even the anniversary yet, but this has been swelling in his heart for days already. "Can we." No. That sounds stupid.

"Can we what?"

He tries not to even think the thought again but it's not like Chuck is gonna cross the bind just to yank it out of his hands to find out what it is.

Chuck would never do that.

Which makes him want to tell him the stupid, sappy idea more. "Can we print out your old texts and frame them for the bedroom wall?"

Chuck turns in his arms and settles against him more. Pets his head. "You love my words."

"Really a lot."

"I love your words, too. Of course we can. That's so millenial of you."

"Millenial would be if you ever sent me nudes."

"We could put yours up on the wall?" He laughs. "I don't know if they make frames big enough for those dick pics, though."

God.  
Sam smiles. Squishes him tight.

«»

They clean. In one of the rooms, they set up a quiet place for Cas to extract his grace from Dean. One more day - one more hunt, and they'll book it directly to the bunker to do the spell. They worry that if they wait too long, some of the grace will fade or dissipate naturally, so Claire and Krissy are sleeping through the last job in order to stay awake and drive everyone back. They're staggering shifts and keeping everybody on point - everybody except Dean who, by all accounts, is too wired to even try to sleep anymore. He'll crash _very_ hard on the car ride back.

Charlie texts to let them know the last grave is filled, the last ghost is dust -- they're done. They're hitting the road. And Chuck and Sam buzz too hard, studying the spell and the rites, unable to sleep, themselves.

They make coffee and tap their pens incessantly against the table and fill up on snacks and finally decide to play video games until everyone gets home. It lends a certain unreality to the wave of arrivals when they finally happen. Sam saves their game and Chuck wipes his sweaty hands on his jeans.

"I really want this to work," he says, setting their controllers aside.

Sam snags the back of his shirt to pull him in and kiss him. He doesn't say that it will.

He feels that it will.

But being wrong about that would make this last so much longer. He wants to go home. He just wants to go home. He wants it so much he can barely speak the words for fear of jinxing it.

They help the ladies bring their bags in and Cas walks Aamir from ground level, down into the war room. His eyes go wide, making him look even younger.

Sam watches him move past all the hidden wards under the floors and breathes relief that he doesn't flinch. Doesn't seem to be, you know. Inhabited by anything. Not that they aren't going to have to do the tests - Aiden was proof that they'll have to do them for everyone on a regular basis, from now on. But it's promising that he looks so genuinely stunned by their cathedral of books that he keeps having to stop Cas to repeat things.

Chuck steps up to draw Aamir away from Cas to show him to his room. And Sam pulls the bags from Dean's hands, ushers him and Cas down into the room they set up. Shuts them in.

Just Sam, Dean, Cas. The noise cuts off behind them as he locks it. Dean leans back on the table heavy, rattling the bowl of ingredients they set up. It looks like he was just woken up, and he's still exhausted. Which makes sense.

Cas takes what seems like a big cleansing breath. "I'm nervous," he's the first to admit.

Sam claps a hand over his shoulder. "You're fine. Wanna go over this again?"

Cas shrugs. "I think so."

Dean's rolling the heel of his boot on the floor. He looks like trash. Still dusty, even. Like he didn't even shower, just dove in the backseat for an unsettled doze while Cas drove him home.

Sam sighs and comes to take his jacket. "C'mon." Ushers him to the chair. "You wanna hold on or you want me to strap you in?"

Cas turns to read through the pages one last time.

"Just, uh. Just hold me down if I fidget. I won't fight you."

"Did Cas teach you your words?"

Dean licks his lips and nods. "Same ones I've been reciting after each hunt, plus the ones where I'm like," he motions from his chest, "giving of myself to him."

"You going to Vegas after this?" Sam grins, taking his overshirt.

Dean snorts. "No. I mean." He rolls his eyes at himself. Talks low, "You all are shit outta luck. We're taking a week off, doing it on a beach, you're gonna be folding little napkins into shapes and shit. Cas is inviting everyone we know. Claire keeps saying she wants to be the flower girl."

"She always wants to be the flower girl," Sam laughs.

Dean thumbs at the arms of chair over and over, nervous.

Cas turns with the bowl and the extractor. "Sam." He's ready.

Sam moves to take up the match box he left nearby.

"Dean wanted to give the grace back to me himself. But he'll need your help."

Sam nods, comes to take the bowl from him and strikes a kitchen match one-handed. They don't need more practice for this ritual. He knows for a fact they've been preparing themselves in their alone-time. Dean doesn't need to sit on this any longer, either; he'll just tense up more. Cas can explain exactly how they should give him the grace as soon as they've actually got enough of it in hand. So. First thing's first. "Let's just do this," he lets the snap of the match alighting crack through the tension. They both nod and Dean starts reciting, the Enochian less clumsy on his tongue than it's ever been. They've been practicing _a lot_. Dean said they even try to use Enochian conversationally, in private, to talk to each other - he's trying hard to meet Cas on common ground. As if they haven't shared foxholes. As if they're not just... meant to do this.

They seriously _are_. And he hopes that doesn't change because Dean is adding ASL to it. He's smarter than he gives himself credit for. Hopefully he keeps studying, keeps practicing, keeps talking to his family in all the ways he can. Winchesters aren't great at talking things through and that's changed for Sam with Chuck around -- Charlie helps keep conversation open, too, around the bunker -- but it needs to keep on changing for Dean. He needs this.

When Dean gets to the new part of the spell text, Cas mouths the words to help him remember and, when he nods over, Sam swirls the herbs in the bowl and ignites them. A single feather sits in the center and Dean inhales over the smoke, coughing but breathing deep as he can, until the feather is consumed. Dean says the second set of words again, with his eyes closed this time, and offers his neck. Willingly gives of himself to heal Cas.

Sam watches it from the outside this time. The glowy grace pulled as Dean's neck cords from the strain. When he starts clawing at the chair, Sam comes to clamp his wrists down.

"It's okay, Dean. You're okay. Breathe."

He tries to. Sam leans into him. Presses their heads together. He can almost hear Dean gritting his teeth.

Cas is able to get a lot of it since not much time has passed. The daily recitation after each hunt probably helped. When he gets as much as he's willing to pull from Dean, he removes the needle and pushes Sam out of the way to check Dean's vitals and hold his head.

"Please," Dean pants, "do it, do it fast. I don't want you to have to wait anymore."

Castiel nods and they both help Dean stand, trade places with Cas.

For the spell, they had to figure out how to get the grace back into Cas. Normally angels can just suck grace up but this stuff is weighed down, liquid instead of gas, and can't be swallowed or inhaled. It also has to be accessed by Cas directly - not through his vessel. The delivery basically has to be different, more direct, because of the nature of the spell and what it has to restore.

In other words, they're gonna have to work blind. Sam brought a strip of cloth for his own eyes and he borrowed Chuck's headphones, though Cas said, previously, that he'd try to keep the noise to a minimum.

Dean didn't want headphones. And he only agreed to close his eyes. It's dangerous and if he should fumble something and open his eyes on accident, Cas could burn his sight away entirely, just sitting there, exposed like that. It's way different from when he moves vessel to vessel. "So how do you wanna-"

"I'll sit. And ease up and out," Cas says. "And you have to do it carefully, but fast. I shouldn't fill this space or it might compromise the structure of the bunker itself. I'll try to be careful. I'll push myself against Dean and he'll know -- he'll know where he's supposed to inject it. So help guide Dean's hands. It will feel-" he seems to grope for the words. "Hot? And not dense enough? But trust that when your hands contact it, that's, well. Me. And that's good enough. And I'll be holding my structure in a semi-formed state of-"

Dean cuts him off, "I'll know you when I feel you," he says with confidence, pulling Cas forward some in the chair. Kisses him, bolder than he ever has with Sam present in the room, and takes one last, long look at him.

Sam suddenly realizes there must be some massive risk to this reapplication. Something they didn't research but that Cas innately knows. Something he told Dean. Something they have to be careful about, that they had to practice for. He's watching them trust each other not to make this worse instead of healing Castiel's wings.

They look at each other as if they're silently referencing a conversation wrapped in too much love and intimacy to give voice to.

Until Cas nods. And Dean nods. And lets it fall away.

"Okay, Sam," he turns, still leaning on the chair and the workbench for support. "If I drop anything, just put your hands over my eyes. I got this."

He screws a new needle over the vial and Sam comes to stand behind his brother, slightly behind Cas. Sam puts his blindfold and the headphones on. Dean positions his hands to do what he needs to and taps Cas on the shoulder.

Castiel has his own set of Enochian verses to recite, then Sam feels everything around him _shift_.

As the noise starts, so does the heat. It's sickeningly familiar in a far-off way and Sam gropes for Dean's wrist to hold it loose and just keep even with his movements.

Sam feels himself start to get compressed, almost as if to make room for the towering presence flooding out of the vessel and into the room. Dean's pulse quickens under the pads of Sam's fingers and he pauses rather than lose his grip. It's so bright, even through his eyelids and the blindfold. He puts his other hand over Dean's eyes.

"I got it," he protests over the noise.  
But no. It's too much of a risk.

If it's too tempting for Sam to open his eyes just to see the light, it will be too tempting for Dean to try to see Cas's form as he works. They aren't risking it.

Then Sam really feels it. That slick-warm presence, like salt water too highly concentrated.

He feels Dean's movements, his shoulders shift against Sam; he has to shake Sam's hand from his wrist at one point. Sam lets go.

And just when the sound rises too high, and he has to press the headphone painfully over his left ear, Dean shouts something and it's over.

He yanks at the headphones first and waits until the noise is just an echo ringing in his ears to pull the blindfold down. He blinks away spots and sees Dean shaking his head clear of the noise.

Sees that the vial is empty.

Cas sits forward, taking deep breaths, gripping the arms of the chair tight.

The anticipation is somehow thicker now, after it all. Two weeks of work and this being has allowed himself to push past his earthly boundaries to be healed. Allowed for his partner to give him this. All that work and all that waiting. Years, now, of being unable to fly.

The lights blew out in the room. All that's left are the emergency lights Charlie installed. And they're dim. They just barely survived the surge.

As Sam and Dean watch, Cas shudders.

"Babe," Dean breathes, touches his shoulder. When his fingers land on fabric, the lights short out entirely. Then rise again, bright and sudden, leaving them blinking.

Sam helps Dean move to get to Cas and

Cas is gone.

Before his name even comes out of Dean's mouth he's back, on his feet in front of the chair, staggering like he just came to a rough landing.

They stare wide-eyed at one another.

Cas takes the vial from Dean's hand and sets it aside. Keeps his unblinking gaze on him. He takes both of Dean's hands and focuses. The lights start to come up too high and right before they whine and blow there's a stuttered rush of electricity and movement out of the corner of Sam's eye. He and Dean both turn to see the form of full wings, in shadow, on the opposite wall. They unfurl. Then snap open-

The lights come down again.

The room goes dim under the emergency beams. Just two remain.

"It worked," Dean breathes. Starts grinning.

"It worked," Cas begins to smile back.

Sam feels his own face crack into a wide grin and tosses his stuff aside.

He swings by the table to dump a mug of water over the smoldering herbs and unlocks the door, bolts out-- right into a crowd of people.

"It worked!" he gets to announce.

There's a collective cheer and they push past him to get in the room. Sam gets displaced out into the hallway and trips over to Chuck to pull him close and spin him around.

"It fucking worked!!"

"We noticed," he laughs. "We're gonna need more light bulbs."

"Hey!" Charlie yells, and there's a collective shout from the room.

Dean and Cas appear next to them, out in the hall.

Cas is all smiles. Dean is already rolling his eyes. "Showoff much?"

They disappear again.

They go buy (or maybe steal) pies from three different restaurants in rapid succession and holler for everyone to join them in the kitchen.

And Sam knows that's just the beginning of the festivities. And the kickoff of a freaking feast.

"They're never gonna let us get the groceries again," Chuck frumps.

Well. Good thing this is the last time they'll ever have had to.

«»

After a day, the partying is already too much for the both of them.

The sheer joy of Castiel's restoration only throws into sharp relief how much Chuck is still suffering and Sam can't take the non-stop celebrating just as much as his husband can't take the noise.

They start packing the last of their stuff. And they're on the point of loading it into the car when Cas finds them in the garage. Finds them on foot, coming down the stairs, still grinning but not flashing off, now that he's getting used to it again.

"I have something for both of you. For the road. But if I do it now Dean says the deal is that you stay until after dinner."

They look at each other. Worn out and thinking only of home.

"Cas," Sam hesitates. "We really just-"

"It will only take a few moments. Please? I owe the both of you so much."

"Cas," Chuck shakes his head. "Hardly, dude. You do so much for us-"

"Please," Cas repeats. "You have to let me try."

They look to each other again.

"Meet you in the dungeon," Chuck decides. "We can grab one more box."

"No," Cas turns, "this way." And he just leads. So they just follow.

They end up in Dean and Cas's new room, downstairs one floor from the dorms. They moved in yesterday when Cas simply blinked, flashing all their furniture down one floor.

"I'll need your permission for this," Cas settles in to explain himself. "I was able to eliminate some of Dean's older muscle injuries, so. If you'll allow it, I want to try to help you both one more time. With anything you need." He nods, as if to himself. "I can do this." He locks eyes with Sam. "Please."

Sam pulls Chuck to come sit on the corner of the bed with him. Tangles their fingers on Chuck's knee. Feels out the bind for a moment. Feels Chuck looking out the window of their home, their mind palace. Curious.

"You okay with that?"

"I think we give it a shot, yeah. Cas is good at this," Chuck nods. "You first. Say it so I can agree."

"Cas has my permission to come in. To try to help us."

"Both of us," Chuck presses.

"Both of us, if you're okay with that," he agrees.

"Cas has my permission to try to help both of us, yeah," Chuck squeezes his hand. Looks to Cas.

He decides, "Sam first," and Chuck looks on, intrigued, as Cas wraps both hands over his ticky shoulder. He lets them flex their hands. "Take a breath, Sam," he encourages.

He inhales, exhales just as Cas does. His eyes flash a bright blue and Sam's shoulder involuntary judders under his grip.

There's this... sound that comes out of his mouth that Cas and Chuck both laugh at and... well, that's because it feels _seriously fucking good_. But it was totally like a sex noise and he clamps a hand over his face as they both lose it.

"Oh my god," Chuck leans away, covers his mouth, trying to calm down.

"Rotate your arm," Cas prompts, still smiling.

Sam does. And it's painless. And it doesn't tick or pop or feel strange in any way.

"So this was like a full upgrade for you?" Sam laughs.

Cas shrugs. "I have most of my former power. Everything is a lot easier to access." He watches Sam flex for a moment, helps him to fully rotate his arm, pulls it out straight, puts a little strain on it.

And yeah. It's not perfect. But it's better than it's been in years.

"Good?" Chuck asks.

He knows his mouth is kinda hanging open. "Fucking amazing."

They both laugh at him again.

"So. Chuck?"

Chuck settles next to Sam, close, buzzing a little. But Cas prompts him up and urges him into Sam's lap.

"Hold on to him. I should be able to do this. I'll need, um. More permission."

"For what?"

"Let me inside the bind, specifically. Let me try to... add nitrogen to the soil. Let me try," he insists, "I think I can make this easier for both of you."

Sam hesitates again. He just wants to go home. It's Sam's job to fix them and he can do it. He just needs time. They don't need to be letting other people in just to-

But.  
If Chuck feels better, faster, it's worth it.

He squeezes him a little. "You want to?"

"Only if you can handle it right now?"

Sam feels for him. Feels how crowded it is across the bind. How, even this early in the day, Chuck flees to their home because his own hallway is knee-deep and their shared space gives him relief until he can practice, write, speak with Aamir or Cas, translate some stuff.

Chuck should feel safe in his own head, if it's at all possible. He shouldn't have to lean on their mind palace, shouldn't be flooded out of his own, quiet thoughts.

"Cas has my permission to get to the bind. And if it's safe for you," Sam shrugs.

"Cas has my permission for both of us, too." He turns back to look at him. "Okay?"

"This will take a moment," he's weirdly eager. He puts both hands to Chuck's head and.

Well. Sam knows Cas can tell he isn't really feeling up to this. He gets a dubious look from him.

He holds Chuck tighter. Cas wouldn't endanger their bind. Wouldn't fuck anything up. "Yeah, okay."

He tries to ease back some, mentally, but he still feels Castiel intrude.

Like with Sam's shoulder, Chuck makes a _noise_. And like.

It's a good thing he's on Sam's lap right now.  
But. You know. Also not a good thing when Cas can hear what they're thinking.

"It's natural, don't be concerned," Cas says aloud. And Sam is pretty sure he actually likes pointing out awkward situations.

"Oh my god," Chuck sounds like he could cry. "Oh my god," his fingers claw into Sam's arms. "Perfect."

"Are you sure? Should I stop there?" Cas checks.

"There's more??"

Cas closes his eyes, but blue light slats through some. He moves one hand to Sam's head and exhales long.

He had no idea that the bind had been both so tense and so fragile since the incident. Cas reasserts the connection almost to the point where it was before. But now, without Chuck holding back from him, and with all the knowledge they've acquired wandering through each other, there is a lack of resistance that truly feels like... like a cool, grassy field beneath the shade of some towering, leafy tree. Easy and open, but protected from view.

Part of Sam is poised to say whatever is necessary to eject this foreign presence from his and his husband's awareness. He has grown protective of it, himself, and he can't describe it properly, but it almost feels like that part of him ready to send words leaping from his voice box, and always prepared to fight to defend his family -- the roots of the bind, where his love comes from and from whence springs his need of his people -- it feels like Cas is pulling the weeds and putting down fresh soil and burying vulnerable parts away.

Sam feels like the hall opens to him. Like the door doesn't need a key anymore. Like his motel room is an area in their house - like he'll find Chuck's hall there and it's all one easy, flowing space. Walls? No walls? It doesn't seem to matter anymore. It can just be an open connection, the two of them pressed there, or they can pull their thoughts into organized images, establish them as part and parcel to the mind palace.

And that's all Cas does. He pulls back fast, puts both hands back on Chuck's head, and concentrates for only a moment more. When he next opens his eyes, it's with a step back and a smile. "You'll have to keep practicing and I'll check on Chuck's wall, but it should hold steady and Chuck should feel progressively more capable of keeping things compartmentalized. I encourage you to..." he considers. "Enjoy exploring. Instead of treating upkeep on your bind as a chore. You've done well for yourselves and any way that I can help you reassert ideas, let me know. Even if you just need to be reminded of how to 'build' space. I only ask that you share some of your experience so we can further document it for Charlie's files. But I think you have that mostly taken care of. With the." He motions. "Projects." He clears his throat and considers more. Seems like he's going to say something else and thinks better of it. "Um. You should take permission away again. Chuck needs a minute. Please at least stay until dinner. Dean is making enough that you can take some home with you. He wants you to have leftovers," Cas smiles. And goes. The human way, walking, at least until the sound of his shoes fades on the stairs.

Sam blinks. "Um. No more. Permission? For Cas that is. For me or for you."

Chuck doesn't say anything.

Sam's afraid to go looking before he's ready. "Hey crab?" he says at his ear, quiet.

Chuck turns. His eyes remain a little far-off for a moment longer. Then he looks over his shoulder to Sam.

"I'm. I'm not sure what all he did but. There's no... instability. No glow. Like. I can still. I can still speak Urdu and stuff. I can- I know some of the- and I can still remember...." he cocks his head, searching. "They're still there. All the rooms. And the memories. But."

Sam waits and he doesn't go on. "Can we meet?" He tries to find the house. And it's there. It's easy to get to. But it feels less necessary. His awareness and understanding of Chuck is closer. The things about him he wants to encounter and protect, those unseen mental things, he doesn't really feel like he needs space for them all of a sudden. Not the hall or the motel room or the house. No empty rooms or heaven physics. It seems like his arms are the pillow fort and Chuck feels a rightness and solidity in them that he was just starting to share with Sam across the bind. Only it's just. Here.

Present in every touch.

So Chuck gets up and urges Sam to stay. Steps forward to hug Sam to himself and the reciprocity makes Sam gasp.

He knows why Chuck made the noise now.

It wasn't from a years-old ache finally losing that twinging pinch of muscle damage.

It was just from Sam's arms -- the complications and visions and mental flexibility of the bind stripped away so that Sam's _whole self_ is what he's bound to.

Sam feels that for himself now. Chuck is the pillowfort. Chuck is what he wants to crawl inside to be safe and calm. The images are still there, the connection still present, but Sam knows, without joining him in a structure and having the images replayed for him, what Chuck felt happen.

Cas smoothed out the edges. The incarnations of the bind, from that first billowy fabric feel to the mind palace they have worked to share - that took effort and nurturing because they both have this history that complicated it. They had to take those steps, forge the bind into each evolution, show each other the lay of the land.

They had to do that to watch it unfold and push away.  
They don't need some complex structure anymore.

There is no complication between a tree and the sky. Sam held their roots tight and didn't let them break and Chuck is a constant nourishment to him. Rain and sun. Obvious, easy, uncomplicated. Basic. Essential.

He is sure they can explore one another's memories and seek knowledge together. Translate texts as they have been and find hunting methods to write textbooks about as they've wanted to. He can still show Chuck his plans for the basement and the office. But feeling connected - bound - will no longer require a journey. No walking down corridors or through doors.

They two are human. And not especially complex. They really don't need to be.

Well. Like, they're really complex _characters_ with a rich evolution and lots of development and emotional investment and--

Sam realizes that objection came from Chuck and he leans out of his hold.

"You're such a little shit," he says in what turns out to be a really watery voice. "I can't fucking believe how small and perfect you-" he sobs and Chuck catches him up again.

He wanted this so bad. He wanted it to be this easy and fucking _natural_ all along. He wanted to _belong_ with somebody. And belonging with somebody who supports and understands and is gentle with him is so amazing. He has no idea how he deserves this.

Chuck's presence steers him away from that. Takes him on a world-goddamn-tour of all they've done right for each other.

Tries to show him he's good.  
And he can have good things.

He tries not to really cry on him but it's such a relief.  
It's such a _relief_.

He wants to go home. He wants it so much. Wants this to be over. Needs the next volume to begin. He's had enough of navigating hallways and maneuvering memories and treating their damage - their very real mental injuries sustained in the line of duty - like a mountain range to be navigated on foot.

It's the plains. The road. No locked doors. No distance until they pull away, or unless they want to press close but remain quiet. All this effort they've put in to understand the bind - they set it aside now to simply experience one another. Experience _life_ with one another.

He's kinda desperate for their new lives to start this way.

"But we can give Dean today, Sammy. We can go home first thing tomorrow. Let him have this one last thing. Aamir isn't gonna replace Aiden but things are. You know. Healing. Dean really needs this whole family just one more day because he won't get this again until his stupid, frilly wedding."

Sam laughs into the fabric over his stomach. "Okay," he breathes. Holy shit. He loves this.

Loves it more when they're in the middle of the day and he's giving Claire basic siren recognition lessons and the Greek from the text makes sense to him. Loves it even more when he realizes around dinner that Chuck isn't exhausted at all. His head didn't overflow on him even a little bit because they're sharing the entire load. All of it.

That night, the kids and Charlie go to bed before Sam and Dean.

Castiel leaves to bolt around the world a few times, really stretch his wings. Chuck waits up top, outside for him with a growing list of oils and herbs for him to retrieve. Whatever he thinks of, he asks Cas to go find. They steadily begin a stock of rare and important spellwork ingredients to keep in the bunker.

Downstairs, Sam has a few beers with his brother. And it feels like closing out a chapter. "Got all the books you want for now?" Dean asks.

Sam tips his beer. "For now." The only books they're taking are ones potentially important to Sam and the lessons he wants to plan, that Charlie has already documented, tagged, translated, and archived for reference in her digital library.

"We can finish looking for the other storage lockers, maybe. After we let go of a few more shelves worth. It's been so crowded in here for so long," Dean pauses to wonder at it, sip his beer. "Anyway when her... servers or whatever are all installed Charlie'll tell me which of the rest of the books she wants to let go up to your place. We'll let you have all your babies back."

"The fortress," Sam mentions. "That's what we're calling it. Home. Our place."

"Fortress?" Dean considers it. Nods. "You seriously gonna zombie-proof the fences?"

"Think so, yeah," he grins.

"Gonna set a due-out date? From the apartment?"

That hadn't occurred to him. "We'll talk it out. What about you? Set a date?"

Dean gets this weird glowing smile. "I um. Well." He fumbles over it, grinning. "I don't really wanna wait but. I can think of a couple dates. I. I donno," he shakes his head, still unsure but excited.

Sam isn't worried. He'll get a call. He'll show up. Throw fucking rice in his face. Tie bows to fucking chairs. Help him fix his stupid tie when his hands are shaking too much to do it himself. Nice, big muggle wedding. "Want me to give you away?"

Dean chokes on his beer.

«»

Sam brushes his teeth before he heads outside.

Chuck sits on the railing. He has a box overflowing at his feet. Canvas bags, silken satchels, plastic baggies, curved urns, stoppered beakers, and iridescent feathers. "Cameroon," he reports. "Give it a minute." He's smiling, indulgent.

"He missed it."

"He'll get sick of it again. But not tonight."

"Definitely not tonight," Cas says in a rush of wind, returning. He adds a loose bundle of incense to the box. "One more for you two, however," he takes the list from Chuck, takes the pen to cross off a few items, looks to them. "Ready?"

Chuck blinks back up at him but Sam only shrugs, lost.

Cas offers Chuck his hand to stand upright. So Sam comes to claim his husband and Cas puts two fingers to each of their heads.

"Bend your knees," Chuck reminds him. And he does.

And they land on cobblestone.

Cas turns to a storefront and Sam tries to get his bearings.

There are only a few people milling around. Cigarettes hang from their mouths and they talk on cell phones or mind their own business. There's a fountain in a square. A couple sit, crossed and tangled over each other, necking and whispering.

The arrival was sudden, but no problem for Sam. His body seems to have remembered the sensation just fine. He only notices how not-bothered he is when Chuck topples sideways into him a little.

Sam pulls him upright and moves to check-- but he just looks a little wide-eyed and embarrassed, turns to check that no one else saw him stumble.

Cas is at the door of the shop in front of them and turns to look around. He snaps the metal of the lock so fast it just barely screeches in protest. Sam sees "Gelateria" on the awning before they duck inside. Cas gets the wooden blinds on one side and Chuck quickly moves to follow suit on the other side. They're cut off from the outside world and nothing illuminates the three of them except the coolers. And the display from the CCTV.

Sam goes to check and it's not recording. The system is old, VHS. The menu, the ads, the newspaper on the rack-- he can read most of it. Because of his Latin and because of how his connection with Chuck and his languages fills in the gaps. "Italy," he says.

Cas nods. "Just call me when you're ready. Um. Enjoy your date," he smiles. And disappears.

Chuck busts out laughing when Sam turns to him, wide-eyed. "He's really, really happy."

"I guess. Um." Well. He's on an entirely different continent in the wee hours of the morning. Technically abandoned here. For some damn _gelato_. He checks the windows, closes the door, moves a tall, shaky display in front of it. Once he's sure it won't fall down, Sam and Chuck wander behind the coolers. Sam puts both hands to the glass panels. They're cold and the shop smells sweet.

Geeze. They're in Italy. This is fucking... awesome. "So. I guess. What do you want to try?"

"I mean. Everything?" Chuck shrugs, rounds the counter to him. "Why not?"

Sam shrugs too and opens a case to start reading labels. Chuck finds the scoops and containers and they go through every damn flavor until their tongues are too numb to taste anymore.

Sam sticks with strawberry for a while and Chuck goes for fig because it's unusual but fun. Sam swoops in to kiss him for a taste occasionally. No one knocks; no shadow even falls across the windows. They're alone on an ice cream date. A European date. Maybe the first of many, depending how much of this Cas is willing to do for them.

Sam wants to sneak out and wander. He wants to know where they are, specifically. He wants souvenirs and to maybe jimmy the register open for some Euros and... then he realizes that his brother-in-law can really, seriously do this for them whenever they want. They can still wander today, but there's absolutely no rush. He can ask for a ride, take his husband to Havana and Budapest and Hokkaido and Bogotá. They have one stationary, perfect home to build. And suddenly they also have the world at their fingertips.

He has his brother whenever he needs him.  
And the solace of silence when he needs to stare at Chuck, at his best friend, and watch him easy and safe and peaceful in love and in sleep and in the morning and in the evening. Just all the time.

Chuck takes his gelato to a table and pulls down two chairs and takes his cell phone from his pocket. "GPS says we're outside of Florence. _Firenze_ ," he says, trying on the accent.

"Firenze," Sam repeats after him, borrowing it.

"We're gonna sneak up to the Duomo, right?" he takes another spoonful and starts googling directions.

Of course. Because he knows Sam will ask.

They hold hands, hike up the narrow streets, stick around through sunrise, late enough that one of the nearby coffee shops opens and Sam uses his stolen Euros to grab them a coffee they don't need. They're really fucking tired by this point. But they get a cardboard sleeve on the cup and it's going in the collection.

The first of many.  
He has another idea for their home. He builds it, behind his eyes. Takes their coffee cup and holds Chuck's hand tight in his so he can see.

"Cool," Chuck nods.

They look up at the multicolored marble of the cathedral, look up and up like the statue of the builder behind them.

They think of building impressive, holy things, too. In South Dakota.

«»

They leave the bunker as soon as they can. As soon as Dean's willing to let them.  
It's been a couple months since they were last in the apartment.

In the parking lot, in the morning light, Chuck drops his head into his hands when he looks up and sees their windows. A surge of disbelief rolls over the bind. He looks up again but keeps his mouth covered like he could cry.

Sam kills the engine and pulls him closer to kiss his head. Press his hands to him.

Chuck is just _beyond_ sweet. He holds Sam's hand up the stairs and asks if he can unlock the door and then makes Sam drop the bags and asks to be carried inside. He takes him in, brings him to bed. Sam lays him down and pulls the blinds so he can bask in the growing sunlight. Pops a kiss on his mouth and locks the door tight when he's got all the bags inside.

He kicks off his shoes and comes to yank Chuck's off his feet so he can scoot up the bed.

Sam keeps going, though. Undresses him entirely, balling up and throwing his clothes far. Chuck takes up kissing him and carding into his hair.

Sam can hear the extreme quiet of the room. He unplugged things before they left; he usually does. But with the doors all locked and securing them inside, it feels like the room is just gonna stay the same amount of quiet as when it was human-free for the longest two months ever.

It's easy. It's nice.

He digs Chuck into the sheets to nest him inside.

Chuck's hands are so gentle on his neck and shoulders. He wants Sam's clothes off but he isn't going to push. Probably for the same reason. Because it feels quiet and calm in here. Almost sacred.

He puts his hands all over his husband. He trusts this with his life. This person is more than he even hoped for in a spouse. He loves to ache when they're separated but he can't put up with it for long. He would rather have him since he has him. Sam still expects to die. He expects that he will die not having done all he wanted to with him. Not having said everything that was necessary. He feels like he'll end up dead one day without having given 100% of everything to the man who's given him more than he thought possible.

Sam smiles into kissing him, mouthing at his neck and shoulder. He strips his own clothes off and grips them, strokes them together to get hard. "Think we should fuck," he whispers. "With the windows all open."

"Wow, what if I ask for cuddling first? Like Sam Winchester cuddling. Because I kinda want that. The big kind."

Sam has no idea what he's talking about sometimes so he just does his best approximation. He balls Chuck up so he's small and digs into the covers with him and holds all around him.

"Fuck, you're good at this."

Sam kisses him. "You, too." But he still has this idea.

He still wants Chuck under him. Still wants to fuck him.

But he kinda wants to ride him.

So let's just see how this goes. How far he gets before he changes his mind or his body changes it for him.

He tries not to think about it too much. He draws Chuck's hand to his ass.

Chuck perks and smiles because he likes Sam's ass. "Hi."

"Hey. Touch me?"

"Sure," his other hand comes to Sam's cock and Sam closes his eyes and rests his head at Chuck's neck. His hand falls to Sam's hip and Sam draws it back to where he set it before. Chuck moans grabbing a handful of his ass and pressing up against him. Sam doesn't have the faint bruises from Texas anymore. Or at least he can't feel them. He wants to. He wants to feel this.

God, he wants everything with Chuck.

Sam kisses up to his ear. "Can you do something?" he whispers.

Chuck nods against his head.

Sam reaches far, to the drawer. Gets the lube and drops it at Chuck's side.

Kisses his ear again and caresses down his arm to his hand, holding them pressed close. "Open me?"

He feels the breath stutter in Chuck's body. Feels his awareness rise like caffeine just hit him.

Sam sags into Chuck and rests more, heavy in his arms and trusting his husband to do this exactly as far as Sam's willing to go.

"Um. Ask me one more time? Please?"

He isn't second-guessing him. He knows what he heard and he has to be sure it's really what Sam wants.

Sam closes his eyes and repeats himself. "Open me. Please."

"Okay. Come closer for me?"

Sam doesn't do much of the moving. He lets Chuck draw him closer and massage at his ass before pushing him to the side and settling him down. Reaching to touch, then thumb at him, firm and sure.

He adjusts, pulling Sam's leg up and propping it over his own knee.

Sam was prepared for it to feel a little awkward, but, otherwise, Chuck is doing a good job, kissing him lightly and concentrating on where his fingers go. Being firm and sure in his touch for Sam because his mind is actually buzzing and _un_ sure. He's trying not to let that come across. Trying to keep it to himself. But he's been sharing everything with Sam lately. Sam has better access and Chuck is less used to shutting him out.

There's that openness again, that Cas first gave them. The plain skin-on-skin, awareness-on-awareness feel that's easy as breathing when they're this close. Like the walls are just swells of land, now, natural barriers from wind. There's no maze of faceless doors, no structure in place separating him from Chuck. And now Chuck needs to spread him out here and make sure he's doing what Sam needs. Pressing beyond where Sam used to build walls to keep himself from getting hurt again.

When it's exploratory, Sam breathes through it. When it's new and pushing and intrusive Sam blinks at him and looks down. Chuck tries to keep looking back. Tries to keep being sure and has to move his other hand to Sam's side, to feel for when he's about to go tense.

But he doesn't.

Both their eyes fall to where Chuck's hand is curved under him, sliding, moving, working and circling him. He gets the courage to push through and in and Sam is ready for it, doesn't jump.

Just breathes.

Chuck presses in to kiss him. But they look down watching his arm move again. He whispers, "Sam," and starts moving that one finger in and out of him. Gently. Wet and wide as he can. Making room for two. Breathing with him.

And when it's strange still but... suddenly _good_ , Sam moans, feeling his significant other press into him. Knowing that's Chuck's beautiful, talented hand makes it loving, and looking down to see Chuck's gone harder than before makes it hot. His hand comes up to grip at Chuck's upper arm, the tight, skinny strength in it.

Chuck says, "That's okay." Not 'it's okay' but 'that's okay' - it's alright if Sam has to grab him. If his hand holds too tight. It's okay. He's ready for that.

Sam wants to fuck his husband. Really, he does, and now. He wants it to be different though. He wants to ride Chuck so hard he passes out for real. Like, he understands it might not be that spectacular trying this the first time, adjusting to where he'll have that smaller body under him and dealing with the newness, the intrusion, but Sam genuinely wants to just blow his mind one of these days. Fuck him silly.

He's watching this, watching their bodies, watching the way Chuck's wrist works between his legs and he's getting hot for the idea and groans, knee flexing over Chuck's leg, clenching - not in the way that Chuck's being watchful for, though. And he can tell the difference but he asks, "Um. Good?" as he keeps going.

Sam nods and rests his head so he can relax - concentrate on relaxing - and hold sight of him. Chuck tries not to be careless, adding a finger, but he keeps watching Sam's face instead of what he's doing. He moves, once, like he's gonna duck down and go watch directly, focus. But he comes back to kiss Sam like they're magnets or something.

So he clings to that. Lets himself be loved like this. Because Chuck must know what he's doing. He always does with Sam. They're both well aware that the gate might drop shut at any moment and his body will tell him he's gone too far. So they just kinda... ride the crest while it lasts.

The pressure does build. And just as he fears he might get tense, just as something clicks in his spine, Chuck is back at his mouth, pausing his movement this time, kissing him, nuzzling their noses together and waiting for Sam to nod. "Sam," he says low again. Low like a fucking prayer and Sam shivers slightly.

He pushes back on the hand. Chuck presses in and stays a while until he has to break eye contact and gasp.

"Is more okay?" he asks, eyes clamped shut. Getting too hot for it, himself, now.

A laugh startles out of Sam. "Yeah," moans again as Chuck's thumb soothes at the rim.

"Oh holy fuck."

"Sssure," Sam agrees.

"Fuck."

"More?" he asks, shifting down and down some. "Can't you- deeper? I-"

Chuck hastens up onto his knees, gets behind him. Pushes his leg up, kisses his thigh and up to his ass. Fucks him slow and thorough with two fingers. Adds lube - maybe too much, even - to add another. Bites at his ass and kisses it. Reaches far. Lets go of Sam's thigh to massage his side and actually makes _hungry_ noises into Sam's skin, pressing his teeth into his ass.

Every fucking inch of this is as expected, like what he's been working up to fantasies of for the past few months, and just edging on _better_. "Fuck," Sam breathes, digs his toes into the sheets and his legs tense but he doesn't want the rest of him to.

Chuck falls back to kissing him again, anyway. Keeps his fingers slow. Checks on him. "Less, maybe?"

"A--bsolutely not."

"Sam. We don't- this isn't an all-or-nothing thing. It's okay, Sammy. You're fine," he reaches up between his legs to draw Sam's cock down, stroke him. And the combination. Oh yes. That's fucking gonna treat him right, yes. In him and on him. Yes. Chuck easily adds the next finger. Pushes and pulls slowly. Sweetly. Gut-tighteningly good.

"Yes." Sam doesn't tell him to stop like he probably expected. Leans into his hand and... Chuck curls his fingers. Searching. Sam's breath stutters because he's going to find it. He almost does. Sam pushes back and back, wanting him to.

Then feels Chuck hard up against his leg. He wants that a little more. Wants the vision of himself thrown back on top of Chuck, rising and falling on him and Chuck giving him perfect, precious bruises, clawing at his thighs.

"Fuck. Fucking." He shakes his head and moves - crawls up, away and Chuck scrambles to come to him.

"Are you okay? Pl- please tell me, I-"

Sam grabs him, lays him down-- _pins_ him down and moves to straddle him.

"Sam-s-Sam. I know I'm not. I'm like. I'm pretty average? But. You still need-"

Yeah, he really doesn't.

Chuck has done this for him, before. Sam has had him this way, on his lap, thrown back, leaning on his hands, stretching out his torso for him. He's sat back, leaned, reached back to press Sam's cock into himself. And ridden him until he lost it. Then more, and harder, getting Sam to pump up, hold him down, come in him.

And, okay, yeah. It is VERY different being the _fuckee_. And maybe not as--

It's blunt and wet with pre-come and... okay, a little more than he was expecting. Not that Chuck is _small_ , by any means, but he hadn't thought--

"Oh fuck Sam oh fuck ofuck ofuck oFUCK," he grabs for Sam's legs and Sam grins because that was pretty much the point. That -- that, exactly -- makes it right. Makes it work. He arches back and sits spread wide and moans settling down. Struggling to push as low as he wants to.

Immediately begins pushing himself too far.

Every inch of this is so vivid when it's happening inside him instead of on him. He knows the pads of Chuck's fingers so well but they had felt twice their size in him, slicking him up, soothing his skin. His cock feels thick, hot as a brand.

The leaning back is... a little more athletic than he thought. So okay. He leans forward over Chuck and starts riding him, trying to tense when he has to stop and adjust so Chuck is just a mess of breath and shouts and disconnected vowels as he kind of awkwardly tries to get more lube back there.

Chuck's fingertips come to his knees. Flutter down his legs to curve around them. That isn't precisely what Sam envisioned. He goes up and down a few times more, trying to adjust and. Yeah. It does burn some. Yeah, it is harder than he thought. Fuck, it's-

He loves this. He can do this and he can settle down. Get to his knees so Chuck can touch his thighs as he does. Exactly how he wants. This is good. He's gonna love this. Or that's what he tells himself until he actually pries open his eyes on an exhale and sees Chuck-

Destroyed below him.

Now he really loves it.  
Now he's ready.

He grins and breathes. Eases down. Still conscious that there's a fine line between riding him and sitting on him. And the settling is good. Doing it at his own pace is as nice as Chuck's fingers were at first. New and slick and different. Shifts down so Chuck's fingers tap-tap-tap up from his knees to his thighs. He bends down to draw Chuck up and kiss him and just, like, mess with his entire existence from the look of it. Chuck tries to talk between kisses and Sam can't care to let his mouth go.

"--oona come," he finally pushes away, "gonna come Sam, Sam, Sammy, so _fucking_ \--" he shouts again.

Sam lets him fall back down and rides him like porn. Just like. Like the dirtiest porn. Almost true to the vision he saw of himself. Fuck it - close enough.

"Lean back-back- lean back," Chuck says, clenching his eyes shut like he's in pain or seriously failing at keeping a grip on self-control. Chuck gasps for air and pushes at his thighs. "Would you lean back and!! Please!!" he practically tries to order Sam. But in like a strained and totally desperate way.

He pauses to do it. Leans back on his hands and gives a little of the control back and. He thinks Chuck is just gonna fuck him. But Chuck reaches with one hand to hold his cock, take a breath, and _pushes_ up into him, at the right angle to skim close, almost tag his prostate, and then just comes inside of him, hot and tense, crying out.

Yeah, Chuck wasn't ready for it to be over that soon. "Goddamnit," he curses himself. He gives himself a second to breathe, then starts jerking Sam off as he rides the last of it out inside of him.

Fuck. Shit. Sam tries not to fall on him. Has to pull off and lean forward and clamp his hand over Chuck's, stroking the last few times to make him--

He comes all over Chuck's front. Trying to keep his knees and gasping.

Finally falls to the side without even the energy to shake his hair out of his face.

They do nothing but attempt to process oxygen for several long minutes.

Every time Sam's chest fills, it burns down his spine and he feels what he just did to his ass. Not seriously painful but like working a different muscle group. Or, well, honestly, a little like the few times Chuck has left teeth marks on his thighs, his ass, but kinda amplified.

"That was amazing. Also I'm gonna die," Chuck finally says. "Just to let you know." He takes a lot of big inhale/exhales, trying to calm down.

Sam is.  
Yeah. Not moving.

Chuck is sprawled out, too, unmoving until he gets enough breath back. Then he heaves himself up and comes to climb over Sam. "Hi. Hey. Um. I need a status report?"

"I feel pretty good."

He puts his hand to Sam's head, sweeps his hair back. "Okay. But, like. What are you thinking right now?" He puts his other hand to Sam's belly. "That was really supposed to... not happen all at once. I was trying to be careful with you."

"I wasn't," he shrugs. 

Chuck holds his head and _softens_ the bind. An open field, wind sweeping the plains. "I have to make sure."

"So come see me."

"Sam. I think you've had enough of that for now. Please just tell me what you're dealing with. I need to be sure. I need you to tell me if this was more than you aimed for."

He closes his eyes. Chuck is just trying to make sure he doesn't feel like he's been _invaded_ or anything.

What he really feels like is it that he got himself laid pretty well. He feels like he made a mess and, as he shifts he realizes he's still making a mess.

He could shower again. Shower away the month of stress and the bunker and the short drive north and the, frankly, _wild_ sex he just had.

Chuck gets up on his knees. Kisses Sam. "Please stay here. I'll be back for you." He goes and rinses off in the shower. Grabs a towel and starts the tub.

Good alternative.

Sam gets up to follow him and just dumps himself in the water before Chuck can even get everything ready.

Chuck hangs over the side and makes sure the temperature is right. "Turn over. I'm supposed to take care of you now."

Sam does eventually turn over. In his own time. When there's plenty of water for both of them in here and he's warm and still completely, almost _bafflingly_ relaxed. Chuck checks on him for a bit, helps him clean up. But then Sam just learns to really enjoy the feeling of Chuck's soft-fluffy face against his ass - he leans over the edge of the tub while Chuck soothes him with his tongue.

«»

Sam loves being back home. He wants to feel like this all the time - like he can give of himself to his husband, trust someone and find refuge within him, while still owning his own body and his own experiences. He wants to feel freer to experiment and push his own boundaries. He wants to keep Living Weird but in different ways. New ways. Like their daily patterns don't have to match the normies now that they're retired.

He can also be intense - Chuck is capable of handling when Sam goes to extremes. When he's angry, sad, even horny and sex-crazed. Chuck is open to getting weird. Maybe he can draw more of Chuck's everyday weirdness out of him, too.

Today, Sam feels himself getting impatient at things and he doesn't know why. But he doesn't itch at himself until he narrows down the reason. He tries to ride it out to wherever it will take him while attempting not to let it bug Chuck.

He's gone out for his second run already and his hair is still wet from another shower. Chuck wants to put some words together for Cas and Charlie to help them understand the bind some. And that bothers Sam on a certain level. He knows it's important but, after all the ways it has morphed, and in this latest, closest incarnation, he doesn't wanna share their stuff. They're still getting used to the new way it is. Still trying to stretch, little-by-little, over a distance when they're not touching. And it's gonna take loads more time for that. But, again, as it is? It's wonderful and he wants to have time to live in it. Alone with Chuck. He thinks Chuck understands that already.

Sam pulls their binding book over by his fingertips, bookmarks it with a clean napkin and closes it. Stacks it with the journals, across the table. "No more textbooks today. Work on art. You want a juice box?"

"Um. I want a _Slurpee_."

"Mmmm," Sam shakes his head. "We'll only get you a Slurpee if you come walk with me tonight. We don't even have to jog."

"Hoooooow 'bout if I just blow you?" Chuck smiles around his laptop screen.

"I'm easy. But I'm not that easy."

"You _are_ that easy, Sammy, but we can pretend I guess," he adjusts his glasses and seems to blink and shift to a different mindset. Sam gets him some of the iced tea he brewed because, really, he'll drink whatever Sam puts next to his mouse.

He tries to hang out behind him when he drops the glass off but Chuck goes tense. Sam kisses his shoulder, his neck, and goes to the next room to call Dean. It's enough to know that Chuck is gonna proceed with his own stuff instead of the lore. He doesn't need to know what he's working on, specifically, if he doesn't want to share.

Dean's only been home with nothing to do for two days and he's got ants in his pants, too. "Don't tell them anything, but I've been on the damn internet for a day already trying to find a hunt."

Well. He isn't supposed to be doing that, strictly speaking. "You keep this kinda thing from Cas?"

"Well. Not. Not exactly," he grumps. "I mean, I'm looking for a hunt on the west coast. I wanna look at beaches there."

Jesus, he wasn't kidding about the beach thing? "It's winter."

"Well yeah, thanks, Captain Obvious, I-"

"You don't have to be on _a hunt_ to go look at the coast, Dean. You can just..." he motions, "go down the coast."

"That would defeat the purpose," he hastens to dismiss.

"Defeat the purpose?" Sam susses this out. Suddenly gets it. "Defeat the purpose of you acting like you're not feverishly becoming a fucking bridezilla about every detail of your wedding??"

"Yo," Dean says, like that was harsh and it hurt.

"Oh my god," Sam laughs at him.

"You had to _study_ for your fucking wedding so don't even talk to me. They could teach masters courses in ancient _nuptial rituals_ in your fucking wedding," he sneers. "So what if I want mine to be..."

"Pretty? Glowing? Sparkling in every last detail-"

"If you can't help me find a hunt in California, I'm hanging up on your ass."

"What about the gulf coast?" Sam laughs. "You know you've got plenty of hunts there, now. We didn't finish everything we found in South Texas. Wouldn't it be more fitting to get Cas for yourself where you did all that work to get his wings back?"

It kinda felt like a joke when he said it, but Dean is silent on the other end for a long moment. "I'm... ...gonna have to call you back." He hangs up.

Oh. Maybe he accidentally came up with a good idea.

He shrugs, hooks his phone up to charge.

Alright. There really is stuff to be done. They cleaned out everything that grew fingers and toes in the fridge while they were gone. Sam already bought boxes of Whoppers and Snow-Caps for Sandra and Kate for using their spare key to water the plants. A couple of the herbs don't look great, but that's his fault for not calling them for a couple weeks.

Also his fault: Sam too-hastily fabricated a reason for them being away so long without planning to be. He wasn't exactly on his game when they were at the bunker - too worried and fucked up about Chuck being unable to function in his own head. So he told them that there was an emergency. That Chuck got sick while they were out of town. And Sandra had assumed aloud that Chuck needed surgery, so they were staying at home with their family while he recovered.

He didn't correct her. It sounded good enough.

But he didn't expect the cards stuffed into their mailbox by other residents. Or the flowers and care package the ladies left on the kitchen counter for them.

Sam could hide the cards but had no chance with the other stuff. And he's had to wave well-wishers off at the door when they come to check on them. He tells them that Chuck is still really out of it, sleeping, on medication, whatever it takes to get them to walk away without trying to talk to Chuck personally.

While he was out getting the candy, Chuck found the cards in the bedroom anyway. They had gift cards in them for gas and groceries and even one prepaid Netflix card "for putting his feet up and recovering". So he sighed and told Sam to pick up a box of thank-you cards.

They both feel pretty guilty about it, though, as Sam pointed out, Chuck did actually go through a traumatic experience. Anyway, Sam should get to writing them. Signing them so he can pass them to Chuck to sign, too. He should work on house stuff like Chuck has been; more design things and furniture browsing on the internet.

But he also keeps thinking of the cookbooks that Chuck envisioned stacked up in the kitchen when he showed Sam his design through the bind.

Eager as he is to get up to the house-- _fortress_ , and start working again, building their home isn't just gonna be about the things they put in it. They're gonna have to put the whole thing to good use.

So he pushes his sleeves up and gets a pad of paper, retrieves the tablet. And he finds something he can make with what's still in the fridge, the extra stuff they have in the freezer. They haven't made a grocery run yet - they're gonna sneak out after dark so nobody swings by to check on Chuck's health while he's standing there. Chuck's not a spectacular liar when it comes to _him_.

Sam finds a recipe that uses lots of broccoli and cheese - Chuck's favorite way to consume greens. There's plenty of frozen florets in the freezer because Chuck went through _a phase_ and he's got a can of cream of mushroom... the chicken needs to thaw but... yeah. He can do this. He's got the spices and some rice and... he can figure it out.

He writes detailed notes and leaves the tablet - bringing it into the kitchen while he's got stuff bubbling and boiling is just asking for it to get ruined.

When he passes, Chuck says, "Oh!!" So he stops. Cocks an eyebrow.

Chuck holds his hand out so Sam lets himself be drawn in.

"I didn't tell you how sunny you look today. You just look really bright, that's all," Chuck kisses him in the center of his head and lets him go. "Sorry, that was it, I just- I like, kept seeing you all cheery in passing and you look good today," he whispers. "That's um. I'm just happy you can be home. Because you were so bummed out for so long I just-- that's all."

Fuck. 

See, this is why all of this is happening. All of it. This is why all of it _started_.  
Someone fucking likes to see him when he's _happy_.

"You want sugar for your tea?" he tries not to sound choked up.

"Whenever you're. You know. Back this way."

"Make our grocery list yet?"

"I will. I'm gonna finish this," he motions to his keyboard.

"Good job, sweetheart."

He shrugs. "You, too."

«»

He holds his hand out. He breathes clean and free because it's late, but the grocery store still smells like fresh bread. Chuck takes his hand and props Sam's bottled water up in the cart.

"'Kay. You wanna go aisle-by-aisle? You're really just _pumped_ for this, aren't you?"

Sam laughs. "Kinda, yeah." He points their cart toward the pharmacy first. "So I wanted to ask. What would you want our timeline to look like?"

"Like for the fort?" This big, homey feel sweeps through Sam across the plains of the bind.

"Yeah," he smiles down. "You mentioned - I mean it was weeks ago - but we said something like we'd just stay at the motel while we finished up there."

Sam can tell from their connection alone that the idea makes Chuck's heart fly. "That would just. I mean that would be so cool. Maybe not exactly smart, though. We've used something like twelve different cards at that motel so far. And we can't just take up space at Jody's. I know that's an option, but she likes her quiet, too."

"That commute is," Sam sighs. "The two hours is really getting to me. It used to feel like nothing."

"Yeah, not so much anymore," he squeezes Sam's hand and stops them to pull out the list. Points for Sam to reach the paper towels and search for disinfectant wipes and such. "We could." He hesitates, big time. They start moving to the next aisle before he says, "We could call Cas for a ride each morning."

They feel equally reluctant about that idea, for sure. Dean still hasn't found a hunt/excuse to check out beaches, so the kids are doing lessons with them right now. But next week the kids are going with Charlie to stay near Donna, introduce her to Aamir and probably plan for the holidays. The bunker is just gonna be a Dean n' Cas zone. They've been trying to get some time alone. It wouldn't be fair to call Cas all the time to be their magical fucking carriage.

After thinking about it and negotiating over air fresheners, they settle on cinnamon and on doing the 4-hour round trip for a few weeks before they start asking Cas for that kind of favor.

Sam wants to ask to finish one or two rooms of the house and then move in. But he curbs the thought before Chuck can press their hands together again and find it. Much as he favors the idea, he really wouldn't want Chuck stumbling around in the morning, bare feet and the potential for splinters, stepping on nails, hearing Sam cranking up the power saw before his coffee kicked in. Sam could live in a construction zone, no problem, but they're both a bit clumsy. And hasty. They don't have to rush this. Their apartment is great.

He just. You know.

"I know," Chuck whispers, taking his hand up again. "Would'a been nice to start the first day back with, like, an entirely new life. But we don't have to rush it Sam. Really."

No. They don't have to rush anything.

They go down every aisle except for the one with the wine and beer. Sam pauses at the end of it, though. "What do you say we do a bottle of champagne the day we move in? Just one. One time."

Chuck laughs. "I'm not." He stops. He looks down the aisle. Sighs. Looks up to Sam. "Thanks. No. Was that a test?"

"No." He doesn't know what that was. Maybe he thought it would just... be right. Be like a reward, a celebration.

Chuck tugs him toward the next section.

Sam thinks about it and guilt wells up in him. "I'm sorry. That was stupid."

"No it wasn't. Sam. I just don't trust me. You trust me more than I trust me and I trust you more than you trust yourself. But while you trust me? I wouldn't put that in jeopardy for anything. I can't trust me," He repeats. "Can't trust my own head. This?" he is another breath of fresh air over the bind. "This I trust. I don't need champagne. I'll probably need to... I donno, christen the kitchen table and the back porch and the tub first."

"We um,..." he waits for another couple to hustle past them in the aisle. "We already christened two of those," he points out.

"We'll still have work to do," he sounds determined. Tosses celery in the cart.


	12. you still got your words and you got your friends

He doesn't know when he began humming, or when he began singing softly. It even takes a few minutes to notice, quiet his own voice, and hear Chuck picking up the chorus from across the house.

Sam wanders over, starts up the humming again, and Chuck picks up, "... and they're cursing meeee... and they won't let me beeee..."

So they're singing Radiohead to each other across the house while Sam lays tile in the bathroom and Chuck finishes varnishing the last of the dark, gorgeous wood in the last of the libraries.

"And the feelin' is that there's something wrong... because I hmm-hmm words and I hmm-hmm song," Chuck's singing voice has a soft and wandering quality. He balances his paintbrush on the edge of a can when Sam comes up behind him and sways them and he hollers out the chorus and Chuck's voice breaks a little going high on "stop whisper- _in_ , start shoutiiiiing" and Sam laughs into his neck.

"Come on. Too many fumes."

"Mmm," Chuck vaguely agrees. He lets Sam wander them out to the front porch, sits there, lazing against him, getting fresh air. He keeps humming until his teeth chatter too much from the cold.

They've been working steadily. Everything is going to be perfect.

Maybe they're avoiding the _design_ part of home designing a little too much, but things are getting done. Sam would bet that the basement is going to be the first thing complete. That's good. He wants to lock up a few guns down there. He wants a store of silver and iron rounds on standby in the panic room, already.

The roof is finished. Totally finished. Solar and all.

They just have everything in-between. Chuck was able to get all the windows installed, airtight, and the house holds its heat, now. They know all the hidden parts are doing their jobs - vapor barrier, insulation, attic, on and on. Silent parts working well. A house built to exacting standards; built to last a few hundred years if Dean has anything to say about it.

Too many fumes, though. Too much paint and glue.

They keep humming together, and Sam tries to rub his back, his arm, keep him warm. "Deep breaths," he says, prompting.

Chuck follows his lead for a while.

"Dinner?"

"Buh," Chuck curls over himself for a second. "Not right now."

"Okay. Motel or apartment?"

He blows out another wordless complaint. They've been doing an awful lot of driving. And quite a few nights at the local motel.

Sam leans back. "Camping? Here?" he offers.

"No. No, we can go home. The-- the apartment."

There are alternatives. They could go damn near anywhere. And they've been steering clear of the bunker for long enough.

He kinda wants to see his brother.

"Holidays are close," he mentions.

Chuck makes no comment. He's been doing that when Sam mentions Christmas and all. Thanksgiving. New Year's. He clams up. Looks off.

Makes him wonder what Holidays were like in the Shurley household.

Miserable, probably. Like the rest of it seems to have been.

The whole world's open to them, but he isn't sure, lately, what would make Chuck happiest. They hit a kind of limbo at a certain point in the day. Not just when it comes time to decide between take-out and dine-in; Nebraska or the motel.

Chuck is a little unsettled, even with house projects to focus on.

Sam decides to make a decision.  
He makes a decision to make all the decisions.

"Hey. Up," he stands and pulls Chuck with him.

They keep a few days' worth of stuff in the truck out of habit. So.

They close down for the night, lock the doors and the property. They stop for dinner on the way up and, at some point, Chuck falls asleep in the truck while Sam continues driving.

Sam drives them to the cabin. Chuck wakes up blinking at it in the near-absolute dark.

"There's a snowstorm supposed to come in," he points out, yawning.

"Yeah. We get groceries first thing, then get ourselves snowed in." He shrugs. "If we make it to the bunker for Thanksgiving, that's fine. If not? That's fine, too. We just. Shoot ourselves another turkey-"

Chuck laughs.

"And decide what our own holiday is gonna look like. Okay?"

He looks a little intrigued. "Okay. Yeah, okay," he nods.

Sam bundles him inside, ushers him out of the screaming wind, even if he wants to help with the bags.

He's starting the fire by the time Sam brings everything into the cabin.

There's nobody for a couple miles around them. It's the kind of alone that you can feel under your skin.

Sam pushes the couch close to the fire and strips him while they're under the warm blankets. Pushes himself inside of his husband and then keeps him close and safe all night.

He watches the firelight play in Chuck's hair for a while before he drifts off.

It's been a couple months since Cas fixed him up. Longer since Chuck died.

Sam's worried there's some creeping-black-mold feeling spreading in Chuck. Holding death close to him so he doesn't forget. So he can't make up his mind on things and so he doesn't enjoy himself and doesn't let go and run after this home-feeling, this accomplishment Sam's been racing towards.

He worries that something's keeping its talons in Chuck.

And he worries that the only thing wrong is something small and simple that he can't fix. Like not being able to visit his family in Pennsylvania or really get into the whole spirit of the season, even with the rest of the Winchesters around them, if they go to the bunker.

In the morning, they barely make it back before the storm starts pelting the area hard with ice and walls of snow.

And in the buried quiet and dark of it, after the power goes, huddled together in front of the fire like some bare-bones, ancient men, he finally asks aloud, "Is it winter that's got you down? Or is it something else?"

He turns to watch Chuck stare into his coffee cup.

"Because you know I want to know whatever it is. If you want to tell me," he offers.

Chuck lifts his mug to breathe deeply over it. Doesn't even sip it, just smells and inhales. Then sets it aside and reaches to pull Sam down. He inhales at Sam's hair and it's strange but it gives him the chance to pull Chuck up and over his lap.

"Not feeling very useful. And you're so much more useful than I am when we're building the house. And you smell great and you look good. And you're always so much more steady and powerful. Just. Feeling small, I guess. And, yeah. Christmas makes me feel small. I don't know if you want to be with Dean and the kids for it or be with Jody and Alex for it or what. But Christmas is just... all I remember of it is... getting gifts that had nothing to do with me. And they'd sit in my room for years or I'd throw them out. It was the thought that counted but nobody ever had a thought about who I was. And I probably don't have a spot in me n' Austin's room, anymore, at my mom's place. They probably sold all my shit since I'm 'dead.' Or threw it out. And."

Sam's hands go up and down on his back as he takes a deep breath.

"I almost made you a widower. Within the first year. It hasn't even been a year we've been married. Like I'm excited for the anniversaries we have coming up - for the first time I'm actually really thrilled about them? And still I think. How hard am I gonna fuck up in year two? I even fucked up in year zero. It's a shitty trend."

So, overall, he thinks he's doing everything wrong and he thinks he's worthless.

Sam hates it when Chuck's feelings are his enemy.

"I don't have any solutions, here," he adds before Sam can say anything. "Just complaining."

"Winter malaise and guilt. And a generally shitty feeling," Sam nods. "I'm not trying to be dismissive, here, but you built and furnished three whole libraries for me. They're beautiful. We have functioning solar. The kitchen is already looking great. You made every. single. cabinet in the house. Also? You're not responsible for the actions of a demon. And you taste better than anything I've ever had in my mouth." He kisses Chuck's head. His ear. Catches the lobe with his teeth and sucks at it. "You taste better than _anything_ I've ever had in me."

He feels Chuck shudder in his arms, knowing the whole scope of what he means by that. "Fuck."

Sam's wanted to try something. He's been very much about new things ever since they started over with Chuck's new life.

He drags one of his bags closer. Chuck leans over to help. He's got a notepad in there, pens and markers he usually uses for cases and research.

"You know, you were right. I'm not a tattoo nut. Never was. Always thought about it and never had that many things I wanted, like, permanently etched into me. But there are things about us - things about you - that are gonna mean the world to me, forever. So, guess what?"

Chuck blows out a breath. "If you're asking what I think you're asking, this is a lot of pressure."

"No pressure," Sam disagrees. "No. This is about you being my author. So it has to be something I want, of course, but it also has to be something that won't drive you nuts staring at it for the rest of our lives. Something you won't mind seeing when you've got me naked." He pulls Chuck around and makes him take the notepad, the pens. "You're important. You mean everything to me. What are you gonna give me? We got bruises and hickies and I like those, but they fade. I need something. I _need something_ ," he insists. Chuck has gotta believe him, here. There really is a deep-dug _want_ inside of him. So many of Chuck's words are fed into the blog grinder. So many have been published and shared with the world. Sam needs his husband to make him a permanent, exclusive piece of his art, now. It's one of the things that drives him wild about Chuck - how he creates, unlike God, in a promising and caring and hopeful way. When it's stories about the two of them and all their alternate realities, it's beautifully crafted and lovingly tended. They could pick up stories weeks apart and enjoy new plot twists, new versions, new perspectives.

In this world where gardeners have disappointed Sam, letting things grow wild weeds that choke the life out of everyone, Chuck is the guy who fills the coffee carafe each morning and waters all the little pots Sam would make appear in his kitchen. He would sing to them the way they sang across the house. He will be stuck with a garden in their yard, after Charlie and Cas leave them to it, and Sam has no doubt Chuck will worry over every plant and chide them for drooping and go after the rabbits with a fucking shotgun if he has to.

Chuck's biting hickies don't keep in Sam's skin. He's too tough, maybe, for little black-and-blue blooms from Chuck's gentle mouth to stay for long.

He's gotta give Sam something he can keep.

The more Sam thinks about it, the more he needs it like food and water and sunlight. The ivy twines of Chuck's handwriting rooted into his skin somewhere.

"Anything," he pleads. "I don't care if it's a story you already wrote or if you just practice signing your name until you get the exact right one."

"It's bad luck to get a tattoo of your boyfriend's name."

"It can't possibly be worse luck than I've ever had to have _my husband's_ name on me," he shakes his head. "Seriously."

Chuck twists the top around and around on the pen he chose. "I like your skin. I like you clean and uncluttered."

"Yeah, so? Make it beautiful. Make it something that marks me as yours. Make it something that satisfies you. That's all I want. Nothing less will do, sweetheart. It's gotta be from you. I couldn't just ask some guy in a shop to create something that I can carve into me to show who I am. He wouldn't know me. And I don't think well enough of myself to come up with anything. But the way you think of me is so... so fucking incredible. Maybe if I can look down at myself, I'll see it and always remember that the person who knows me best thinks I'm-"

"Perfect," Chuck breathes, seeming dazed when Sam finally meets his eyes. "Too awesome for words."

Sam laughs a little. "I _want_ words, though."

Chuck blinks, still looking far-away. "I might need access to the lore library. There's a symbol..." he trails off, thinking.

Sam kisses him. "I really want this. Think about it for a while? Scribble some stuff."

"Okay. I can't draw really well?"

"If you need to sketch something out like that, or find a reference picture, that's when we'd have a real tattoo artist make it-"

"Yeah. I mean. Yeah. You're right."

Sam takes a deep breath. "Do you wanna ignore the holidays?"

He actually winces. "That's so unfair to you. I mean-- no. I don't. Sam, I really do want to enjoy them again. Or. Er. For the first time, maybe."

"That's so fucking miserable," Sam presses his frown into Chuck's shoulder. "You really never got to enjoy this time of year?"

"You know. Actually. I don't think I did. I think I always wanted to and just gave up after a while."

"Well. Dean's _really_ good at that," he points out. "With the kids, him and Charlie will be making all these plans. I know Thanksgiving was a little too loud and busy for you last year-"

"No, really, it was fine. It's good. And I want you to be able to enjoy it. I just get anxious about... thinking about presents for people and not being in the right spirit all the time and. There was a time in my life when winter at least meant I could enjoy eggnog. Like a lot of eggnog."

Right. Well. Sam suspects that won't be a problem. Without the booze in it, Chuck will probably reject it just like he does yogurt - with a full cup of it sitting in his hand second-guessing that first bit he's already got in his mouth with a really hilarious expression on his face.

Honestly, the face he makes is the whole reason Sam keeps letting him buy different yogurts. He knows what the end result will be, but the adventure is in getting there.

"Not in the right spirit," Sam nods, agreeing with that one, at least. "Listen - I can help you buy presents. Or all the presents can come from 'both of us,' you know? But I understand you worry about not being in the right spirit and-"

"Bringing everybody down! I'm so depressing!!"

"You're not depressing. You might be depressed sometimes, but we like having you around. You are not the thing doing the depressing. And if you feel like you're bumming everybody out? I make your excuses and you go take a nap. Or write. Or sit and watch tv. That's what you've got a teammate for, right?"

He blows out a deep breath and nods. Runs his hand down the blank notepad page. "I'll try to make your tattoo idea your Christmas present."

"We don't have to have a deadline."

"It's good to have deadlines sometimes," he shrugs. "When I had to make rent, I got a lot done making deadlines for myself. Maybe it will push my thought process. My creativity."

"You've been stuck, lately?"

He shrugs again. "Little bit."

"Well. Another thing we can do when the power comes back on is that I tell you all I know about something in the lore. Anything. And we just delve into every aspect of it. I think, with the two of us working together, it will shake things loose for you. We don't have to write whole books at once. Maybe essays or subject pieces or articles. You fix so many of my problems, Chuck. You always hear me out and we puzzle things together. It seems like it's," he tries to put this delicately. "Maybe it's just time for me to remind you of that. If I have to hound you out of your shell a little to keep you from hiding and hurting alone, then I'm gonna do that," he warns.

He blinks a few times, wide-eyed. "Well. That's fair."

"Fair enough warning, right?"

"Yeah," he agrees. Seems to think about it. "I like that you won't leave me alone. I was worried about that. You always asked if I needed to have quiet and be alone. I started to think maybe I'd want to be shut away without you more and more. But. You're good at this. You know the balance. You come get me when I fall behind."

Sam nods. Good to know he's getting that right. It's not quite so amazing, anymore, that they get things right. It's satisfying to solve Chuck's unspoken problems, and it's a huge relief when Chuck lifts some invisible complication off of Sam's shoulders. But what's got to be even better about it all, by this point, is that he has a source of proof that it's really working.

Chuck can't conceal things from the bind too much, anymore. The current version is still that wide-open plain. No halls or homes to navigate unless they want to meet there. It's easier just to use the bind as a barometer for how they're feeling. Sam feels the vibes without looking for them or pulling them out of Chuck's head. Then he digs in, explores where they're at, mentally, by forcing Chuck to talk about it.

That's something he could never do with his family that he always wanted to. It wasn't holidays and gatherings that he couldn't find footing in or find ways to enjoy. It was love, connection, emotion, shared experience. The more he'd push Dean to express himself and share, the more Dean would shut that door right in his face. Until, largely, he stopped trying. He'd accept whatever pasted-on emotion Dean decided to wear and roll with it until the pain boiled over.

It was also never surprising when that didn't work. When Dean started expressing himself and just gave up half-way through a sentence. Dean was allowed to be concerned for and care for Sam, but Sam was fucking forbidden from trying to help his brother out that way.

He really does find it emotionally fulfilling that Chuck will let him pry and try whatever solutions he can think of. It takes a while, sometimes, but it always gets figured out. They've never had to bury something that scares or worries them. Not permanently, at least. Chuck gently pulls Sam's concerns apart for him; Sam makes sure Chuck knows he's not ever alone.

"I know Dean's gonna want us to come. We had Christmas alone last year and got away with it, but. He's."

"Dean's Dean," Sam fills in. They know what that means.

"And you want to go."

He admits he does, nodding. "But I'm not gonna leave you alone when you need a breather."

"I can deal with that. Yeah. We can go."

Sam smacks a kiss on his head. "Thanks. You've got my tattoo for a project. And I have to start thinking about our Christmas presents. What if we have another project?"

"Like what?" he squirms closer again.

"I donno. Something we can do so Dean's not doing the cooking all day, every day. I mean, I know he likes it, but we should plan a kitchen takeover for at least one of the days so he can be in the middle of the celebrations for a while."

"Yeah. Good idea."

Projects.  
Yes.

Stuff to look forward to. Stuff to keep their brains working.

Stuff to live for.

«»

They really are snowed-in for Thanksgiving, but as soon as there's a path open back out of Wyoming, Dean and Cas have a hunt they need help with in Rhode Island.

Charlie and the kids are in Oklahoma on a case of their own and, though Dean suspects they don't need as many hands as they have, he understands their reluctance to come north considering how cold it's been.

Sam didn't expect Aamir and Lori to be there for some reason, but Aamir's the one who steps out of the motel to greet them with their own room key. He accepts it, of course, but it really has been several weeks since he's seen Dean and, at this point, he really needs to hover around and bug the hell out of him.

He tosses his arm over Aamir's shoulder and walks them back into the room. "Special delivery!" he announces himself.

"'Special' is one word for it," Dean pretends to gripe. "The hell took you so long?" he turns only slightly from the little command center he's set up at the kitchenette table.

"All the snow, maybe? Good to know it's not putting a damper on your shining personality, at least." He turns to drag Chuck in and take his bag from him and pull off enough of his layers so he can sit comfortably on the couch.

"It's like a cartoon," Dean observes, head on his hand, watching Sam steadily reveal a person inside Chuck's heavy clothes.

"You're a cartoon. You're fuckin' Scrappy Doo," Chuck finally scrambles out of the sweater that was under his jacket that was under his winter coat so he can escape faster and go pee.

"Isn't... Cas the cartoon?" Aamir frowns. "He's usually wearing the same outfit."

Sam laughs and Dean kicks a chair out, motions for Aamir to sit. "Shut up and get Googling," he turns the laptop. "You gotta learn the internet magic. Find me some links between the people reported so far. Has to be they were buried at a place in town with some crypts. There's no way someone's digging for bodies with the ground this frozen."

Dean gets up, goes for the fridge.

Reconsiders.

Moves the machine and starts filling up the carafe. "Gonna need this, now, I guess," he mutters. "What did he bring? I don't want any of his flavored B-S."

Right. Sam turns to grab a bag of coffee out of their supplies. "Where is Cas, anyway?"

"Police station," Dean grumbles. "We blew our cover here in... I think it was '07? '08?"

Sam frowns. "We do that a lot in Rhode Island."

"It's pretty tiny here," Aamir watches them while web pages load. "What was in '07?"

"Ghost, think it was?" Dean visibly searches his memory. "Yeah. Back when I..." he laughs at himself. "Back when I didn't think angels could be real." His eyes go real wide.

They're talking old cases when Chuck comes back, a little less road-weary and ready to take over coffee duty from Dean. He doesn't contribute, though the stories are probably fresher in his mind than theirs. He turns to read the articles for the current hunt and finds Sam's tablet to do some of his own research.

Cas pops in with a rush of air sometime later.

Sam's actually a little rattled by it. He's gonna have to get used to Cas flying around again, landing loud in their cramped motel rooms.

He's more buttoned up and the lines of his clothes are a little straighter. You can tell he's been playing the part of a Fed even though his hair is in a little more disarray than it was when he couldn't fly.

Sam knows that Dean secretly, deep-deep down, thinks it's _fucking adorable_. He's seen Dean's happy little grin when Cas is his slightly-scattered self.

"Three animated bodies so far," he reports. "Or, re-animated, I suppose."

"Zombies?" Sam hasn't looked at any of the articles yet.

"Looks like it," Dean slides over a police report.

"I literally can't wait to see one of them," Aamir looks pumped.

"You might not feel that way after one comes looking to kick off a raw diet on your ass," Dean assures him.

"Or throws you hard enough to break your arm," Sam nods.

"I grew up on zombie stories, guys, you're not gonna ruin this for me."

"These are very different from most standard depictions," Cas frowns like he's reviewing all his mental footage of monster movies.

"Yeah. They almost look like us until you get close enough," Sam says.

"Within biting range," Dean nods. "Cas is gonna do most the legwork on this, he can't get chewed through. So. We've got live ones, walking around and scaring the shit out of their relatives and ex-boyfriends and whoever else. We need to know where they're coming from, then find somebody nearby with the knowledge to resurrect."

"Or the power," Chuck says from the couch.

"Right," Sam agrees, and repeats for Aamir's benefit, so he can read what they're saying, "or the power. Some witches can just pull people out of the ground. Your everyday asshole has to say the right words, perform the right spell." The only word Sam signs is 'asshole' because it's one of the only few he's learned so far and it makes Aamir grin.

Chuck gets up off the couch, covers the tablet, shakes his head. "I got nothing."

Sam sighs. "Okay. We're gonna set our room up. Let us know when you need help."

Dean knows damn well that he doesn't mean with the hands-on stuff, but he still ends up trying to make Sam come drive across town with him.

Much as he doesn't want Aamir to get too much exposure at so young an age, Sam's new default is "no" and he has to have a very good reason to say "yes." There's five of them on the case. Plenty of phone calls to be made, social media to be scoured, and police reports to dig through.

And he has to sit on Chuck's feet to keep them warm for like half the day because he hasn't quite settled into winter yet (but he's getting there - soon two pairs of socks will suffice).

One night, they agree to do a drive-by of a couple cemeteries to see if their suspect arrives.

She doesn't.  
But another suspect does.

Chuck's eyes go wide and he reaches out to frantically tap Sam's arm. "Don't stop don't stop don't do anything weird, but -- look," he points.

Dean said he thought the guy was just nervous about Cas showing up at his work, staring him down.

He looks more nervous, now, looking down both ends of the street before darting across.

He's obviously new to this, not a powerful witch yet (thankfully), as he's carrying a huge tome and a bag that he tries not to rattle too much when he's running. It could have volatile ingredients in it, so they've gotta be careful.

Sam rolls the truck to a stop at a light, driving as normal. "Do I just... go for it?"

"Um. Drive around the corner. Put it in park. Hop out. I'll call Cas and follow you with the truck."

He goes where Chuck points, throws it in park, and climbs out without looking back.

Sam pulls his gun and watches Chuck drive a block north to come back around. Then glances around the corner to see where the witch went.

He's got a key. He's letting himself into the back gate. He works at a home improvement store. They suspected him, at first, because he works the garden area. He gave Cas a witchy vibe, being able to grow things out of season and talking about herbs and stuff, but, duh - the hardware store also has a key replicator. He probably got a copy for the cemetery and lets himself in every night to fulfill his stupid little comic book fantasies trying to raise the dead.

After he's ducked through the gate, Sam bolts to follow but, between one blink and the next, Cas is in front of him and puts up a hand.

Sam reels to a stop and Cas just flashes in and grabs the guy, throws him back out the gate and into the street.

He gives out a high cry, hitting the pavement hard and skidding ten feet into a snowbank peppered with dirt and litter.

Cas comes out and pushes the bag and book into Sam's hands.

Chuck pulls the truck up to the curb and it rumbles, idling, while Cas grabs the guy again and drags him up, into the truck bed. Sam pushes the bag and book through the passenger-side window and climbs up to train his gun on the witch when he starts to resist Castiel's hold. "Hey," he barks.

The dude stops dead, gulps. "Um. I was just. I was just. It was just an experiment. I just wanted to see what would happen!"

Cas rolls his eyes. Slams him to a sit. "Call Dean. I'll hold him back here."

"Yeah." Sam levels one more hard look at the witch and watches while he puts his hands where everyone can see them and just holds on for the ride.

He gets back into the cab sighing. "Dean called it. I guarantee you he's a Romero fan or something."

Chuck looks equally annoyed. "Back to the motel?"

Sam nods, pulls out his phone to call Dean, but keeps his gun saftied, out in the open, just in case the witch tries to bolt at a stoplight.

"It was the nerdy guy," Sam announces when he picks up the phone. "We're heading in."

"It's always the fuckin' nerdy guys thinking zombies are fun for the whole family," Dean hisses. "I'm still trying to corner this last walker. What are you gonna do with him?"

" _Walker_ ," Sam says, rolling his eyes. "Speaking of nerds, if I ask Cas what you're hunting with right now, is he gonna tell me you've got your crossbow out instead of your grave spikes?"

Dean grumbles. "I've got the damn coffin stakes. Leave me alone."

"Okay Daryl. Well. I'm gonna slap him with a binding spell and let Cas lecture him and you can decide. He didn't, you know, actually get that many people hurt."

"Can't imagine it's pleasant to wake up to some nerd casting a spell on you and then scare the daylights out of your family just waltzing into the house like you ain't been dead for a week."

"Yeah. Okay. Agreed. But nobody got eaten."

"Not this time."

"Cas will lecture him," Sam repeats. And he damn well is because Sam's tired and he wants no part of this bullshit. Sam can do the spell, himself, but that's the extent of his involvement in this hunt. "You need him after he's done?"

"Yeah. Probably. I can't find this asshole..." he mutters.

Sam tells him to be careful and hangs up to dig through the bag.

He finds his employee ID with a good, clear picture. He's gonna need something personal. At a stoplight, Sam reaches to open the back window.

"Yank his hair for me?" Sam calls to Cas.

"Hey! No!" the guy protests, dodging him.

"Then just rip off a finger," Sam snaps.

Cas grabs his hand and twists his arm painfully until the witch yells "alright, alright!" and Cas yanks a clump of hair to hand over.

Sam stuffs it in the little card-holder on the ID lanyard and digs through the herbs in his bag for the right stuff.

"We got knotweed in our stuff?"

Chuck shakes his head. "I know there's a ziplock of it in the Impala."

Sam sighs. "We could just go hunt for the last zombie with Dean? Get everything out of the way at the same ti-"

"No thanks!" Chuck laughs nervously. "I thought it was bad enough just being in town when we know there are zombies crawling around. I don't wanna go hunt for one! In the dark!"

Yeah. Good point. Not gonna expose his husband to his worst nightmare.

«»

Sam ends up having to give the witch their lecture on not fucking with dark magic.

Cas has to go be Dean's back-up and then they come back with the herbs. Sam uses the witch's employee ID in a short spell to bind him from doing any further dark magic. With someone so unpracticed and weak, it isn't hard. The bundle of herbs, hair, and the ID, tied up tight within the lanyard, go up in bright-red flames automatically, preventing him from ever raising the dead again.

Dean even decides to give him his bag and his notebook back. "Hell, you can even do all the witchcraft you want to. But you try any shit again, you realize it'll bounce back on you."

"Bounce... back?"

Even Aamir laughs and rolls his eyes.

This dude is so new he doesn't even get the very basic concepts of witchcraft.

"If you try to use dark magic on anyone or anything again, the magic will rebound and lay a hurting on you like you've never seen before. Ten-fold. Ten times worse than when Cas almost kicked your ass," Sam explains.

"Sometimes it's as simple as broken spellwork. Sometimes it's broken bones," Cas adds.

"Sometimes it kills your friends. Or brings the law down on you," Dean gives a subtle nod to Chuck.

The witch stands there for a long moment, limply holding his bag in his hands. "I was learning. I was just learning about magic. I didn't think..." he trails off. "Can I have my grimoire back?"

"Hell no," Dean opens the motel room door and starts scooting him out. "You try anything out of it, it'll whip back in your face, anyway. Let it go. Stick to lighting candles and blessing that clunker you call a car. You clearly need it."

"Well, can I get a ride back to the cemetery? I'm parked all the way across town," he tosses a hand.

Dean rattles some change from his pocket and pitches it across the parking lot. "A few hours on public transit so you can look all your fellow citizens in the eye and remember you almost got them eaten this week. Bye."

He shuts the door and locks it.

Both his sleeves are up to the elbow in embalming chemicals and traces of rotten blood.

"Sunrise in about a half hour," Dean sighs. "Breakfast?"

"Ugh," Aamir winces when he wafts by. "You stink. I'm not eating anywhere near you."

"Fine, fine," he peels his jacket off. "Couple hours of Zs and then?"

Sam frowns at Chuck. He nods like it's good enough. "We'll see you guys at 9:30."

Before they shut themselves away through the connecting door, Sam snags the grimoire and goes to sit on their couch. Flips through it. The writing progresses from old, faded, and nearly incomprehensible, to newer information. The latest dates, at the very back, are on extra pages stuffed inside the book, dating up to February 1991. At the front of the book, he finally finds a legible date.

1585.

"Geeze. This thing is almost 200 years older than the country. Charlie's gonna love this for the collection."

Chuck looks a little dubious. He shucks his shirt and sets an alarm.

"What?" Sam shrugs.

"You wanna keep it and read it."

"I mean. Yeah. Before we hand it off."

Chuck looks uncomfortable. "I don't want to be that close to death magic that's had over 400 years of practice attached to it and who-knows-how-many witches of who-knows-what strength. It just gives me a bad feeling."

Sam is gonna laugh and shrug it off but.

Sometimes Chuck feels a certain way for a reason. Even if it sounds like it's coming out of nowhere, it's for a reason.

Chuck knows how much Sam wants to read this. He knows how much Sam loves books, period.

But if it'll help him sleep until breakfast, Sam doesn't have to keep it here.

"Should I pass it back off to Cas?"

"Um. Can you put it in the car? The car's good about holding stuff like that."

Chuck believes wholeheartedly that the Impala is a protective force.

And now that Sam thinks about it, it would be a good idea to keep it out of Aamir's hands. He's already pretty savvy. Maybe they shouldn't risk raising a supernatural Kylo Ren.

«»

Chuck agrees that they can just follow Dean back to the bunker. He takes the long miles in the truck to prepare himself for an extended family holiday. They've got most of December in front of them.

A part of Sam - okay, admittedly, a _big part_ \- still doesn't understand the way Chuck feels. The closer they get to Kansas, the warmer Sam feels inside. He's looking forward to seeing Charlie. To seeing how Aamir has settled into his room and where Dean has allowed Lori to go; whether he shares dog-walking duties sometimes now that they've got a service animal in the house. Looking forward to having Claire there to both cheer and exasperate Chuck. He can't wait to do the shopping for all that Dean's planned, and decorate the bunker in their half-assed, thrown-together way. Presents will be nice; now that the family is wider, he has no idea what to expect!

And then comes the New Year. Somehow, Sam feels like it's gonna be honestly refreshing to start a new year, this time around.

But, then, things start off... strange.

Since Chuck switches off driving with him, Sam is able to snag the 1585 grimoire and look through it a bit. He doesn't start to make notes, yet, figuring he'll be able to once they settle down in the bunker's library, but he notes that there's definitely some old English text recounting events in the earliest colonies. Hardships that were relieved by supply ships from the homeland and enhanced by the locals who wanted them out.

He starts to get a bit of a bad feeling about the book, himself, realizing that the witch who began the tome might have been among the first American settlers to strike out at nearby natives.

Then he doesn't have a chance to feel any kind of way about it. Between a diner and a rest stop and the last leg to Kansas, he loses track of where he put the book. It's huge, tall like an old atlas and heavy as hell, so it's not like it's easy to miss.

It's not in the passenger seat. Cas didn't put it back in the trunk. Aamir isn't reading it in the back seat of the Impala. Chuck has been avoiding it. Dean had mostly forgotten about it. It's not in any of the bags or even the truck bed. Sam has been driving, so it's been over a hundred miles since he's even seen it.

Is it... is it possible he set it on the top of the Impala and Dean just drove off without noticing?

Nothing else is missing from either of the cars. Sam comes up with no other explanation and Dean's lack of concern isn't helping. They've been at a rest stop for 45 minutes while Sam searches both vehicles multiple times.

"Sammy. Let it go," Dean finally sighs, half-baffled.

"It didn't grow legs and walk off, Dean. It's a powerful book," he insists.

"Only if you have the juice to use it. That kid had been studying it for three years and he just started making zombies last week. Look, you said it was from the friggin 16th century, right? Maybe it was bound inside the original colonies or something. Maybe we hit a lay line or a boundary of some kind and it was recalled somewhere. Maybe I... did drive off with it sitting on the trunk. I wasn't really looking out for it."

"I know, Dean, but you should have - that thing had _so much_ history and knowledge in it."

"Yeah, and death magic. It gave Chuck the creeps. Maybe he threw it out the window while you weren't looking," he grins.

Chuck, cross-armed and leaning on the car, scoffs. "I wouldn't abuse a book like that, he knows where I sleep at night."

"Some family grimoires do have self-destruct instructions, Sam," Cas chimes in.

No one seems concerned. All he can do is throw his hands up in the air.

"Look, we'd have noticed if that witch tailed us in his junkmobile," Dean says. "Ain't no witnesses to harass about a book gone missing, and we wouldn't want people to be too curious about what the book does, anyway. So we lost a book. We've got a million more at home, Sammy," he shakes his head. "Seriously, let it go."

"Isn't that dangerous?" he has to ask just one more time. "To just let it float around, god-knows-where?"

"It's... slightly suspicious," Cas agrees. "But books imbued with enough power, much like cursed objects, have been known to remove themselves from the 'wrong' ownership. If it finds its way back to the witch, it isn't as if he can use it, being bound as he is, now. And perhaps we should avoid holding a book too close if it's possible that it has that kind of curse on it."

Chuck finally steps forward and takes his hand. "Sam," he looks up with sympathy in his eyes.

At least he isn't all pleased and satisfied that the book is gone. At least this way Sam knows Chuck didn't _intentionally_ \--

Shit.

He would _never_ intentionally do that and not tell Sam about it.

They're right.

He has no reason to be so obsessed with this book unless it had talons. And it was sinking those talons into him.

It was a book filled with power.

If it did have a draw on him, that's why - that power. So the smartest thing to do would be to scrub it from his mind and forget about it.

Let go.

He nods, rubs his free hand over his face, and decides to shake it off. He takes the keys back from Chuck. "I'm gonna keep driving. It'll clear my head."

"'Kay. Need anything from the vending machines, first?"

"Nah." He looks to his brother. "Ready when you are."

Dean nods and everybody loads up again.

Sam leaves the book behind. It takes him a while longer to shrug off the mystery of it - that nagging curiosity.

But then he remembers all there is to look forward to.

«»

Charlie howls with laughter when Sam picks her up and hauls her upstairs like she's part of the luggage. The commotion calls Claire down to see what's happening in the garage and they almost bump into her on the stairs.

She grins, "What the hell are you doing?"

"Bringing the boss back in. C'mon. Nobody's leaving," he smiles.

"Family meeting!" Dean hollers behind him.

"Family meeting!!" Sam bellows across the house. He drops his bags by the couch and doesn't put Charlie down until they're in the kitchen.

Sam's excited again. He runs back to pull the bags off Chuck's shoulders and draw him into the dark of a hallway. He presses Chuck against a wall and kisses him deeply. Pecks his face until he loosens up and laughs. "Geeze."

"Family meeting, okay?"

"Yeah."

"You sure?"

"Yeah, I'm here."

Sam takes a deep breath and sobers up for a moment. Presses to his ear. "And you're okay?"

He nods.

"And you'll tell me if that changes." It's not a question.

"Sure. Yeah."

Sam is about to pull back, but Chuck's hands come to his neck, a little unsure. He stays in place so Chuck can grab him. He holds their heads together and it feels like Chuck just wants to feel their connection for a second. Their bind.

"Alright," he breathes, clear and easy, like he found what he was looking for. "Do we tell Dean about when we're hijacking the kitchen from him?"

"We can let him decide when it will be but he doesn't get to veto our plan."

"Okay. Hey. Sorry about the book."

Sam smiles, "Don't worry about it. It was almost as tall as you are. I couldn't carry the both of you around," he sinks down, grabs him by the legs and hauls him over his shoulder. He marches to the kitchen.

"Nobody escapes, Chuck," Dean shakes his head at him like Sam caught him trying to hide from the family meeting.

"Yeah," he says, muffled in Sam's back, "I mean of course. Why would anyone want to?"

«»

Chuck has let the kids cast him as an elf for the season.

He's laughing about it. It's not like they're calling him the grumpy elf. It's not a mean thing. He's the danger elf, aptly predicting when Dean's gonna burn dinner and have to order pizza. Wrapping Lori in tinsel and watching people, wide-eyed, notice her skittering past when Aamir walks in. Popping out of nowhere and pelting people with balls of wrapping paper scraps. And on one memorable occasion some snowballs he brought inside.

He wears the pointy green hat that Claire got him. (Dean's the one wearing the poofed red Santa hat around the house.) Sam can tell he's not cheerful, exactly, but that he is at least having fun. He spends a lot of time with Claire until she's just too much busy noise for him. That'll be around mid-afternoon. Then he can nap and wake up and have dinner with everybody and endure several more hours before bed.

Sam spends some time in the new archives.

They are... gorgeous. Not a word he'd use within range of his brother, but, they really are.

Charlie still has about a sixth of their accumulated books to scan in and do text recognition on. She has a program auto-tagging items for faster reference and, when Alex shows up at the bunker for the holiday, she continues the job assigned to her by their Queen. She's doing the quality assurance on the text, tagging, and keywords.

She's so good working with Charlie's computer stuff that her and Dean are talking about trying to convince her to switch her intended major and become a programmer. Charlie has no problem teaching her and it will make her very useful to the family behind the scenes, if she wants to keep away from the hands-on aspects of hunting.

Alex enjoys the quiet detail work of it all. Whenever Sam visits the archives, a vast space downstairs, converted from interrogation rooms and storage, Alex is down there with her music on low, typing away. Sometimes she'll get up and feed more pages of Bobby's loose copies into the scanner. There's a pristine, Zen-like quality to the whole thing. New, metal shelves line the rooms from floor to ceiling. Cas reconstructed the majority of the space and brought down huge tables from storage. They're the same old wood as the ones in the library, but that's some of the only stuff reminiscent of the rooms upstairs.

This space is clean rows of metal set in the stone and concrete of the dungeons. Day-glow lights are set into the ceilings and there are desk lamps scattered around for easier reading. There are magnetic labels on each section, each row, each shelf. The books are organized from oldest to newest. One of the interrogation rooms survives as an airtight, climate-controlled room for the most ancient and brittle volumes - and those made of anything other than paper. Charlie had to assign Dean and Claire to straight-up steal a machine from a museum that would help safely photograph the pages, which slowed down the archiving process a bit.

If it weren't for the tables and the art, Sam might think of the place as pristine. But, like all the other stuff his family owns, a little character is creeping in. On the sides of some of the shelves are monster scenes in sharpie. Claire hasn't initialed anything, but there are speech bubbles on some of them in her handwriting. The old chairs are mix-matched and a little rickety. So are some of the table lamps. There's a mini-fridge filled with Charlie and Alex's canned energy drinks. There's a Dracula bobble-head high up on top of one of the shelves, serenely swaying away.

Charlie is already lending out some of the books to hunters who need them.

They've decided to be a little more secretive about the digital archives. She wants the whole thing backed up in a closed system before they open it up to other hunters on the deep web. That will take more server space and it will have to be off-site. She couldn't risk losing all the information in one blow, twice over. The bunker might be a school someday, but it's gonna stay air-gapped if she has anything to say about it.

The books upstairs, in the library, are the ones they have copies of downstairs and those that are needed for quick reference.

Carver Edlund's books are stored downstairs. All of them. And they've been scanned to the archive, along with the unreleased, digital follow-ups Becky took from Chuck's stuff.

Dad's journal is in the archive. So are Bobby's journals and Rufus's. There are articles in laminated cards. Cases they've worked. Letters they've received and notes they've taken on cases. Sam can't even figure out where Charlie would have gotten some of this stuff, but her research powers really are only paralleled by his own.

The cursed objects storage has been moved, along with a lot of the uncursed objects and old MOL science experiments.

And there's some empty room here, now. There will be even more once they've moved the duplicate books out of the library, to the fort.

Charlie brings it up, at some point, while he's poking around the preservation room. "We're gonna have to ask," she says.

"Ask?" he's a little lost.

"Well. We stopped because the bunker was full of all these boxes. All that stuff from the storage lockers. Chuck did say there were a few more lockers left to empty."

It makes his insides lock up. Sam has to breathe for a second and remember that there's a lot less of a chance that Chuck would fall into a memory or trip over something awful in the hallway trying to remember where those lock-ups are.

The bind makes things easier. Their marriage has made things very stable in Chuck's head.

"And there are some hunters who've been communicating with us. Some want out of the game and they need to pass on their weapons and their books. Some want a safe place for dangerous objects before they, you know. Die. And their unsuspecting families inherit all their stuff."

Sam realizes this archive is basically their newest child. It's gonna grow, fill with more knowledge.

The bunker might not even be big enough for all of Charlie's plans.

He blinks. "Are you thinking of reforming the Men of Letters?"

She smiles. "Well, I wouldn't call it _that_."

He grins. No, she wouldn't. "We're here if you need us. But. To an extent, you know?"

"Will you ask Chuck for us, at least?"

He can't say yes right away. By the time Christmas Eve rolls around, Chuck looks exhausted. Sam crawls into bed with him when he escapes after breakfast - not for a nap, just to breathe. He puts his hand to the side of Chuck's head and feels him holding it back, trying to keep it from crossing the bind. But Sam knows, by now, that it's been too much. That he wants to be in his own home and have quiet.

Donna's coming down this afternoon. So there's not much chance of that.

"I'm gonna lock the door," Sam says. "We can watch Netflix." Chuck blinks at him, not wanting to agree. Not wanting to be folding under the pressure again. Sam considers him. They just got him a new haircut and he has his glasses on. Maybe Sam didn't realize how much he missed pawing at him, but he suddenly does. He looks so damn good.

Sam gets up to lock the door and cut the lights down and grab his laptop. He pulls his shirts off and tosses them, too. When he gets back in bed, he kneels over Chuck to take his shirts off, too. "I don't know if it will be warm enough in here for that."

It won't. It's only warm enough that they won't need an extra blanket. But with the both of them huddled in, sharing one shell, he can keep Chuck half-naked and plastered against him. An early present to himself.

«»

They rested pretty well all day, so Sam's not exactly surprised to see that Chuck is up first on Christmas morning. But he's sitting on the edge of the bed staring at something. Or kinda not staring at it. It's a piece of paper. He'll glance at the page and turn it over. Again and again.

Sam trails his fingers up to Chuck's back and he's a little startled at first, but then moves so he can look down at Sam in the sheets.

He hands over the piece of paper.

Sam is about to turn it over when he snatches it back.

"No. Sorry." He shakes his head. Looks freaked and nervous. "Sorry. I don't actually want you to get a tattoo. What if. What if you-- if something happens. And you have to go back to hunting. It's smart to have this rule, about no identifying marks. It's not that I don't think you should do what you wanna do. I'm not-"

He reaches around. Steals the paper back and rolls to the other side of the bed to plant his feet on the floor. Chuck scrambles after him across the covers.

Sam turns the sheet over. There's two lines in pen.

In Chuck's handwriting, it says:  
_Every version of me._  
_Every version of you._

He must stare at it for a minute. Chuck breaks the silence by saying, "While it's totally the sentiment I was going for, there's also this song? And I just realized that's what it was this morning. It's a frigging Placebo song. Every me, every you. And. I don't know what else. I don't know if. If you."

Sam thumbs over the words.

Every version they've made up of each other - every version, they're in love.

He wants this fiercely.

"I... I don't know," Chuck stutters, then goes quiet again. Sighs a breath against Sam's shoulder and reaches over to take the paper from him again.

He switches hands and holds it out of the way.

Chuck huffs and moves to his other side-

Sam stands and holds it high above his head, until the page brushes the ceiling.

Chuck actually _stands on the bed_ and makes a grab for it.

Sam steadies him when he wobbles. Then helps him hop down but doesn't give the page back. He keeps it held high backing Chuck up into the wall until he clunks there. Dives to kiss him and keeps going until all the fight falls out of him and he hangs on to Sam's arms. His eyes are closed and he goes loose in Sam's hold. He's able to push the page at an open book and close it inside, one-handed. Then kisses down Chuck's jaw to his neck and pulls him back to bed.

He's looked hot lately. Not... with the elf hat on. More, in general. The narrow-eyed looks he reserves for the others when he feels like he can't express himself. The remaining red tones in his short hair darkened in the low lights of the bunker. In the moments when he's not goofing off or helping in the kitchen or filing books and information away for the archives, he's set somewhat aside from everyone else, observing in that way Sam recognizes. The writerly way where he absorbs situations and just listens to people talk.

Chuck has looked strangely untouchable. Like a fixture around the family scenes, until someone remembers to bother him again. They do, pretty often, and it's nice to see him included so frequently.

But Sam is understanding Chuck's place in these settings a little more. Understanding how he's felt and why he wasn't thrilled with being surrounded for the holidays.

There's also still a caveman in Sam's center. A part of him that wants Chuck for himself that he remembers having to stifle all the long months they lived here, before. A part that likes to see the sunshine falling on Chuck through the windows each morning and waiting for him to start babbling about the news or theories on tv shows or random facts he learned or whatever. Stuff about the world and stuff about them.

And Chuck? Well, he stifles himself _far too much_ when they're around the others.

Sam refuses to hold back now, grabbing Chuck, upending him onto the bed and moving to wedge himself between his legs, pulling them tight to his sides.

Chuck has his glasses on and Sam _likes that_ a little too much in a big, pervy way right now. Wants to strip him of all but the glasses and-

All he has to do is ask, but the bind is too open at moments like this. Faster than him, too, for sure.

As Chuck pushes him over to give him exactly what he envisioned, Sam's suddenly indecisive because it feels so good to be home, between his legs again - maybe he wants this. Maybe he wants-

Chuck laughs a little and sits up. Shifts to get to the end of the bed. Pulls Sam's shorts off and goes with the original plan. The one where he looks up at Sam through his glasses while sucking him off. And Sam grips his short hair as best as he can and loses his air trying not to thrust too hard.

He hums with his tongue flat to Sam's cock and looks up at him and Sam chokes on a curse.

Every time they have sex Chuck is the most beautiful thing he's ever seen. Every time Sam opens his stupid mouth, Chuck is happy to hear him. Every day is weird and different and they've had some bad days since they got together, yeah, but the only time Sam thinks about dying anymore is when he realizes that he probably gets to keep doing this even when they're not on planet earth anymore. And if anyone attempts to separate them, they're signing up for an ugly, bloody end.

Every Sam, every Chuck that they concoct is meant to run into one another or be together forever. Maybe in alternate galaxies all across the fucking multi-verse they are.

Sam wants to think that. He wants to stop thinking about the universes where they _don't_ find each other again.

The words for his tattoo are perfect. He pulls Chuck off his cock to roll him under himself and grind against him. Make him talk. Make him ramble and shout. Sam tries not to kiss him - tries to focus on shocking the words out of him because he knows how and Chuck's been quiet around everybody, storing up his words so Sam can have 'em. He wants them. They're _his_. And, in a twist, of course it's Chuck _pleading_ to be kissed while he's coming that makes Sam come so hard his vision grays at the edges. It takes him several long minutes of panting, leaning up over Chuck, to say, "Thanks for the Christmas present." Chuck grabs him by the head and takes kisses until he's got no oxygen left again.

They ignore at least four rounds of knocking at their door.

Sam is pretty sure of his husband. He's pretty sure he knows what he wants for the holiday is some damn peace.

Dean wasn't gonna let them have their day in the kitchen until New Year's Eve. That's still days away, and Donna will be gone by then.

Fuck it. They're gonna do it tomorrow and have New Year's at home.

"I have to go be an elf," Chuck sighs, still slowly running fingers through Sam's hair. Soft and calming.

Sam's leaning over him, wrapping him up tight in the warm sheets, eyes drooping at the feel of this quiet perfection. "No you don't. You've been good. You've been really great." He opens his eyes. "But you don't have to keep doing that unless it makes the whole thing more tolerable."

He shrugs a little. "It kinda does. That's how you keep friends and stuff. By acting like you're good with them until you are."

"Fake it 'til you make it?"

"Mm," he agrees. "Might never make it. But at least people won't wince when they hear I'm showing up with you. At least I won't make people uncomfortable."

"Cas makes people uncomfortable and nobody minds."

"Cas isn't the same species. He gets a pass on a lot of stuff. And him being awkward is nowhere near the same thing as me just being surly."

"You're not surly."

"Surly Shurley," he sing-songs.

"You're not a Shurley, either."

He smiles, finally.  
Finally.

«»

Charlie forces the issue before they leave.

Over the big dessert Sam and Chuck made, she talks across the table.

"We need to hear it. Sam? Chuck? Where the last of the storage lockers are," she prompts.

Claire looks at them and Cas pauses, too.

"Um. What?" Chuck sets his fork aside.

Well. Sam had actually been avoiding it. So he didn't ask Chuck to look, yet.

"Bobby's storage lockers. You had said there were a few more. We can finish the whole project if we know where the last of the stuff is."

"Charlie-" Sam starts, but Chuck snags his hand under the table.

"It's okay. I'll... I'll work on it tonight." He catches Sam's eye. "Gonna need help."

Fine. They do this, then they go home. Peace and quiet at the apartment for a while.

"You worked backwards, right?" Charlie asks. "So the newer ones might still be around since we couldn't get to them."

Chuck swallows. "Yeah, they might. No promises. But Bobby did usually think ahead on those things."

"Great!" she smiles. And everybody goes back to devouring the mini-pies they made.

And Sam's gut churns and he puts down his fork, too.

Chuck insists that they pack before bed, just in case he's still too out-of-it in the morning to be helpful.

Fine. Sam bags most their stuff. Starts one last load of laundry so the few things they keep at the bunker will be clean when they have to come back. Then he clunks down on the end of the bed with Chuck and just sits.

Here they are, again. Like back when they were new. In the bunker and having to crank things out of Chuck's head like it isn't actually a form of _torture_. "I hate this."

"I know. It won't be so bad, though. I haven't had a real problem getting swallowed up since before we got married."

"I asked the bind to protect you from that." Sam doesn't know if he's ever specifically admitted to that before. Both of them knew Chuck's exact intentions going in. But Sam's been pretty sure he got what he wanted, too. Or at least he was. Before the roots were partially ripped out and Chuck almost died.

Chuck takes his hand again. Wraps it up tight in both of his.

"I don't wanna do this. Bobby was drinking as heavy as ever towards the end. It's. It's too risky."

"The booze isn't the risky part," Chuck disagrees.

But Sam doesn't even want to think about a too-heavy memory destabilizing the bind.

"You just have to back me up," Chuck says, his blank look like he's already preparing to go looking.

Using Chuck's knowledge on cases just isn't the same. Asking him to go walking in someone's memories is tougher stuff. It means he deliberately steps into those rooms in his hallway.

He's not ready. He tugs Chuck's hands, yanks him so he blinks up.

"When we did the first storage lockers-"

"It's not the same. Promise. It's not the same."

"I don't know _how_ to back you up," Sam insists.

He shakes his head. "You do it every day."

Sam blows out a breath and bundles their hands together. "Okay. Where do you have to look? I guess I should say 'when'?"

Chuck zones out, looking at the far wall. "I little while before the end. Before he got his legs back."

"Should I go to the hall with you?"

"If you want. Want me to wait or come show you?"

Sam closes his eyes because he can't do it otherwise. The complicated parts, the parts where they exist individually, are not as accessible to him if they aren't his own motel room and his own memories. He actually doesn't want to do this and he hopes Chuck can't read that because he shouldn't feel like Sam won't be there for him every step of the way.

This part of their connection feels rife with landmines, though. He doesn't like that Chuck's looking and he fears that he could make it worse.

Chuck must feel something but he stops and waits and Sam has to go through the entire process of unlocking the motel door and crossing to the house and stepping through the house and exiting through one of the doors to a hallway. He has to navigate through what he knows and what he's experienced and he wonders if that will ever get easier. It's supposed to be easier for him with his stupid demon blood. And with all this practice. But Chuck's still so much better at everything.

"Alright. Stop." Chuck takes his hands away and stands. Sam opens his eyes to him taking a few deep breaths, pacing across the room.

"What happened?"

Chuck rolls his head on his neck. Looks up for a moment and does that thing where Sam knows he's cursing out God.

"Chuck?"

"Alright, okay." He paces a few more rounds and then comes back. Puts his hand to Sam's chest until he scoots back a little. Sam pulls him up by the hips when Chuck straddles him. "Sam. You're gonna listen to me. And I'm gonna give you an option. And if you don't listen to me? You're gonna have to leave the room. Got it?"

Well, fine. He shrugs.

"Here's the thing. You're giving way too much credit to the magical mystery psychic soul bond thingamajig and not enough to your intelligent brain that works just fucking fine. Every time you're doing something major with the bind you treat it like a recipe. Like you have to open up a book and follow the directions but it's not a book, it's a gun. You pick it up and muscle memory will tell you how to use it. I connect with you just fine when you're not thinking about it!" his voice goes high in his frustration. "But then you're thinking all 'oh, I'm not good enough at this' and 'oh, I'm just some jerk' and 'oh, Chuck is so much more capable than me.' It's just not true!!" his hands fist in Sam's shirts at the shoulders and he gets right in Sam's face. "You're thinking about it so much that, frankly, _you're the one_ crowding up my head. You feel me across a room. Not much, but enough. You feel me when you're sleeping. Not clearly, but enough. You're completely capable of navigating our connection. Not flawlessly, but enough!" he insists.

"I just-- I don't feel that way! I did know I-"

"Yeah! I noticed! And I know I can't get you over your self-esteem issues singlehandedly, but-"

"I didn't know I was crowding up your head! What the fuck! You didn't tell me until now! I don't know what to do if I-"

"That's why I'm giving you an option!!" his voice is way high now; he's so much more distressed than Sam ever likes seeing him and that _Sam_ is the cause of it is awful!

"I don't understand!"

"Oh my god. Just listen," he actually rattles Sam a little before letting go and taking his head in both hands. "I don't want you to even think about it anymore. So you have the option of letting me go in to adjust your settings. OR. I let Cas into your head and he takes a few hours to tutor you on what the fuck I'm talking about."

Sam huffs. "I don't want Cas in my head."

"I know."

"And he's taught me stuff before and I thought I was getting it just fine."

Chuck slumps. "Yeah. Yeah, I know."

"You're telling me I wasn't? At all?"

"No, that's not what I'm saying. You do just fine. And if you had any _patience_ ," his eyes go wide for a moment, "I'm sure it would all be great in the long run. But you have zero patience and you want to be in my head _all the time_. So I have you there and having you there is great! But then you proceed to bad-mouth yourself the entire time and if you think I can handle it," he laughs kinda desperately. "You're dead wrong. If I heard someone else say the shit you say about yourself, you'd have to get me out of federal custody again because I'd drive over them several times with the truck."

Sam gets chills from that for some reason. Also Chuck is settled down on him, straddling his lap-

Chuck flicks his ear. "Stop."

"Right. Sorry."

"Stop apologizing!! I like it! I like you! Just need you to focus your thoughts sometimes!" he's nearly frantic trying to get his point across here so Sam rubs his head and then drops both hands to rub Chuck's calves.

"Okay. Okay," he reviews his options. He really, really doesn't want to invite Cas into his head again. "You said you could adjust my settings?"

Chuck sighs. "Yeah. If you want."

"Well, that's the simplest solution. I trust you. Why not?"

"Are you sure?" he checks, looking wary.

Sam shrugs. "I trust you," he repeats. "I don't wanna drive you nuts, but you're right - I do wanna bug you all the time."

Chuck thinks for a minute. Starts carding through his hair. Pushes it all back and, in some far-off daze he presses forward to kiss Sam's head and doesn't fall back for a long moment.

Sam closes his eyes and tugs him close.

Chuck makes himself a weirdly solid presence in Sam's head.

"You're sure," he says out loud.

Sam nods and watches him and they're in his motel room again.

Chuck approaches each wall and touches it. And each wall becomes an entirely different color with different furniture as he does.

One, two, three, four. He finishes touching each wall and the motel room has turned into the bedroom in Chuck's apartment in Kansas City.

It's nice. Really nice. It's got the windows and... the door to the bathroom where Chuck choked himself, seeing demons and not telling Sam about it.

"Oh. Okay," Chuck says. And touches each wall again. They become the bunker bedroom.

But. There's no windows and the perpetual presence of the rest of their family just outside the door.

Chuck doesn't even finish before he realizes.

"Okay," he says again.

"I'm sorry."

"Jesus, stop apologizing for being a complex human with emotions. I didn't marry a damn angel," he gripes aloud while moving to touch the walls in Sam's head again.

But this time he takes a moment. And when he touches each wall it falls down to reveal the wide plains of the bind.

"That's too big," Chuck says. "Don't be far away."

With just that simple order, as if Chuck could command his head to do so, the far reaches of the plain seem to shrink like they're just a valley. Sam doesn't know how, can't see any far-off mountains, but it's in some human way, like the way you feel elevation or the pressure change when a big storm comes in. It's subtle, but real. The bed and the furniture are still here and three walls become the gauzy curtains, like the very first time he ever felt the bind. They're held aloft by trees, tall and proud at each corner. He had a dream that looked like this once; a dream that felt like their honeymoon, where he climbed the bed, up into Chuck's waiting hands, and they laughed making love, happy like they knew they'd never hurt again. Chuck sits down on the bed and it's suddenly tall enough for Sam, not the standard shorter size at motels. And it all just feels right. Just like the dream had - an unexpected pleasure and understanding. Open and bright.

"You had to fix my walls," Chuck says. "And you put in a lot of work. But you didn't feel comfortable. So I'm just gonna have to plant my own roots like you did in the hall. Only I'm gonna do it over here and the same way I never lose track of you, you'll never lose track of me. So. I'll sit here. You wanna go to the hall and find the storage lockers for me?"

"Oh holy shit," he grips Chuck's hips probably too-hard, still not blinking his eyes open to reality. Still fucking completely enchanted by the beautiful sight of this airy room, open to the sunny plains, and holding his husband on a wide, soft bed.

"Turn around and walk to the hall," Chuck says.

Sam just.  
Turns around.

And walks to the hall.

He's... in the hall pretty suddenly.

"Um. As soon as you see the door, you'll know it."

"How?"

"Shh," Chuck stops him. "Just walk."

Okay. Sam just goes forward.

There's a blue door like any other in the hall. The light is on in the little window.

He reaches for the handle.

He doesn't think he's supposed to ask if this is the right one, for some reason. So he just opens it and walks in.

It's like a storage room in itself. There's a stack of boxes, four across and four high, toward the back. They appear to be the only ones that haven't been opened.

When he approaches the stacks, it gets tricky. He can't read what's scrawled on the boxes, though they're clearly labelled just like moving boxes full of somebody's belongings.

"This... doesn't make sense. You can read any language, now."

"Well. It never really does make sense to me. Those boxes are older than- I um. I mean. I died for the first time _after_ I got those memories. It's always been tricky unscrambling the visions but these have been here for a while. They're not gonna make much sense."

Sam is certain he has to pull a box down from the first column and open it. So he does. The first of the sixteen boxes, top, left.

He can rip the tape off and open it.

Inside, there's a bobble head figurine.  
A San Jose Sharks hockey jersey.  
And a Jacksonville Jaguars jersey.  
And a keyring with a bundle of keys on it.

The box is full, but the other objects are somewhat obscure. Almost like they're in a deeper level of the box than actually exists. He wonders if that's the actual contents of the storage locker, it's just that Chuck doesn't have the room to remember and organize understanding of all of it.

"Well. That's opposite sides of the country," Chuck sounds chagrinned.

"You mean... there's a storage locker in either San Jose, California or Jacksonville, Florida?"

"Yeah. Um. Count the keys."

Just as he's about to, he gets blown across the room by a slat of light, like a fucking tractor beam gone haywire, and his eyes shoot open to the bunker bedroom, here, in the real world.

Chuck lets go of him and grips his own head and breathes really hard.

Sam can see Bobby, every time his eyes blink closed. Bobby driving. His hands on his steering wheel.

He can feel Bobby gutting the body of a monster. As if his own hands just did this.

The hands on the wheel are bloody. The windshield is cracked. For some reason, he knows that's because someone's head collided with it, spider-webbing it in a circle.

He tries to shake it off. It's got a fucking horrifyingly similar feeling to the way he would hallucinate Lucifer. So real it nearly crawls up his throat with his dinner.

Chuck gasps his breath back and puts his hands up, splayed in the air. He focuses.

And Sam can't feel Bobby anymore.

"I got it. I got it. Sorry."

Holy fuck.

That's what it is.

That's what Chuck lives with all the time.

"I'm sorry. I should have warned you that would be in the box. I thought it would hit me and not you," Chuck sighs and swallows and blinks and then just breathes. "Okay. Sorry."

"No. No, it's okay." It did that because Chuck tasked him with going through the memories, himself.

"We can work on your settings more, later. I can do the rest."

"Like hell am I letting you do that shit on your own ever again," Sam flat-out refuses, almost angry. "If you want us to open the boxes together, that's okay, but I'm not letting you go through that alone again. Holy shit. I had no idea," he hugs Chuck close. Closes his eyes just so he can be back at the curtained enclosure, back at the bed where he knows that Chuck was working on planting himself so Sam can access him closer. So it's not so much of a journey this time.

He knows that now. He knows that every time they do this, it gets easier. And now Chuck is gonna make that happen faster.

He knows, now, that someday he really is going to be able to fucking throw a grocery list across the bind at Chuck and have him pick up a soy latte while he's at the coffee shop and find him in another room of the bunker without calling or texting him.

It really will work that way.

But Chuck didn't want to plant his roots in Sam until Sam was totally fucking sure -- unshakably fucking sure that he wanted this thing more than he wanted to be on his own in his head.

He can be alone if he wants. He knows that, now. He can do this crossing-over thing if he wants. He knows that, now. He can be tangled up with Chuck and never let go, if he really wants to. He knows that, now.

Against all logic, he's gonna pick never being alone in his head ever again.  
He knows that, now.

It takes two seconds to find the room once more. To pull the items out of the box quickly and shut it again.

There are eighteen keys on the ring. And the bobble head figurine is of a little baseball player. His jersey bears the same number as those on the backs of the hockey and football jerseys. 108.

Sam blinks back to the room and bears Chuck's weight, pulling him to settle.

"That's what it always looks like. That's how the memories work. And anything attached to all the... mnemonic devices? It could jump out at you at any moment," Sam parses out.

Chuck nods into his neck.

You know what? It's felt like forever, but it hasn't even been a full year of marriage. He got to piece this together in under a year. It feels like it took too long, but if he really looks at it?

He did just fine.

And there's some deep string of thought inside him that backs him up.

That tells him he did really well, with the memory and with figuring his husband out.

Chuck is rattled, but not lost. Sam hugs and kisses him and recognizes that he went into the hall without further question and he's giving himself a little bit of credit, right now, because Chuck is sharing some of his roots.

Sam closes his eyes. "You stay in bed. I'm gonna look at the next box."

They only get through four boxes but just three of them have sucker-punch memories attached to them and they've got enough info to give Charlie.

"We can sleep before we look at the rest," Sam decides. "That's enough for tonight." He looks into Chuck's eyes and sees him completely present. A little tired and annoyed, but not lost.

That's the bind doing its work. And Sam is doing his work, helping his significant other out.

Chuck sighs. "That's all, really. The other boxes aren't Bobby's or John's."

"Whose are they?"

He shrugs. "Mine."

"I couldn't read the writing on them, though?"

"Stuff from my old house. My old life. My family's house."

Sam realizes that means he could probably go through them without any of the violent memories of hunting attached to them and not disturb either of them with flashbacks.

Chuck frowns at him. "I don't want to look in them, okay?"

Yeah. Dick move to go through his memories without asking. "Yeah. Right. Didn't mean it."

"I want a hamburger," Chuck says.

"So do I." He recognizes it's because Bobby took a break at a really stellar burger joint after packing up the last storage locker. It gave him heartburn. Sam can still kinda feel it. "Goddamn that's strange. That's the shit you live with," he marvels.

Chuck yawns into his shoulder.

Well. He's got four boxes worth of riddles to decipher.

He decides to put Chuck to bed and write them down to research addresses. He's walloped, even if not totally under the cloud of memory, so it doesn't take long for him to pass out.

Sam can close his eyes and feel him sleeping in the shadow of what used to be the motel room, the flowy space with the bed, facing the plains. He's still there and Sam is glad for it. Letting his roots sink in.

He should stay there. The caveman thing deep within Sam wants him to _always_ be here. Believes he _belongs_ here for all time.

He has to get his laptop and sit on the bed, deciphering his notes on the memories.

They're puzzles just like they always were when Chuck would spit out random words.

The first locker, it turns out, used to be in a building called Uncle Bob's storage - the bobble head. A new company owns it, but it's at the same address and has the same store number - 108. The city turns out to be Jacksonville. The San Jose jersey was there because it's on a street named San Jose. Lots of Chuck's mnemonic devices are sports-related. The numbers of the specific lockers were either imprinted on keys or denoted by the amount, like the ring of 18 keys.

Suddenly, the sheer magnitude of everything Chuck must have stored in his head is staggering.

Even as crowded-out as he is, Chuck has moments of brilliance, when they're researching and when he's writing, that are fucking unparalleled. There are lines of his stories that shake Sam to the core with either feeling or imagery. And he makes connections on cases faster than Cas does oftentimes.

Chuck doesn't act like a genius, but by all Sam's just observed, it seems pretty obvious that he is one.

He has a deep respect for Chuck as his best friend and his partner. Someone who doesn't lie to him, doesn't hide the truth, and who can break things down into terms Sam understands. But it's not just Sam's sense of mediocrity talking when he still shakes his head, knowing Chuck has a better handle on shit than he does - and not just in the bind, but in everything.

Chuck breaks down under the sheer weight of this. Under the mental trauma inflicted by heaven, in various ways, associated PTSD, and standard-issue depression. That's the only thing stopping him from being, like, Charlie. The only thing stopping him from proving he'd make a better boss of their entire team than even Dean.

The brilliance is weighted down by damage. But nothing else. What seems like apathy and avoidance - this whole thing where he wants to be alone and uninvolved in family functions? That's just Chuck trying to keep his life simple. Trying to keep his shit together.

His damage has made him a quiet and humble man when, by all rights, he doesn't have to be.

Sam wants to live a quiet and humble life with him. Far from power and showboat brilliance. At home cleaning weapons and writing down ghost stories. After a lifetime of this, they deserve a fucking mental health break.

He slips the paper with the addresses and locker numbers under Charlie's door.

He puts their stuff in the truck.

He sets an alarm for only four hours.

They leave before anyone else wakes up, when the only person around to see them off is the unsleeping angel who sends them home with coffee.

«»

Good morning.

Today, Sam is sun-soaked under the bedroom window and he has successfully ignored every single alarm and reminder set on his phone.

They have a ton of stuff to do. There's really, really so much he wants to start, finish, and continue. A whole list of tasks that are important, non-essential, and everything in between. It's a new year. A new start.

But Chuck's tummy is soft. So everybody go fuck yourselves.

He's in danger of waking Chuck up, soothing fingers round and round his middle and palming flat against his chest. Pulling his hand down and rising over the curve of his soft tummy and dipping to his belly button, the trail of fuzzy hair, the rim of his boxer shorts.

All the holidays are over except one: Sober Anniversary. They have a first-kiss anniversary, a wedding anniversary, two birthdays, and Chuck's sober anniversary. But his sober anniversary is the day they met again.

The day Sam's life changed.

That morning in Oxford, Mississippi, Sam was about to head home. He thought the trail he was following had gone cold. He was itching to get back to Dean, worried about the Mark of Cain, and doing an awful job of distracting himself with a hunt.

Looking back, the signs were all there. He knows how off his game he was, so he probably just fell on the demons' path by rote.

He found The Prophet in a diner.

Chuck did nothing but hand Sam every ounce of trust and let himself be saved. Saved from the demons and saved from the drink.

When Chuck was detoxing, he'd call out to Sam in his fevered sleep.

All Sam had to do was touch him. He was reluctant at first, but not after he saw how immediately responsive Chuck's whole body was to just a touch on his forehead. His neck. His hand. He whimpered thanks. And sank deeper into sleep.

He was living on whiskey and peanut butter at the time. He got a little leaner hunting with them. And now he's got some more give, again. Little rounded belly, well-fed and healthy.

Sam wants to scoot down and prop his firm thighs over his shoulders.

But he's so soft and fuzzy right here. And warm. It's so good.

Chuck might get annoyed and wake up in a while. He'll give Sam a weird look but let him keep going.

_Soft husband._

Sam got himself the fucking best gift of all on Sober Day so he can't help but think that Sober Anniversary counts a little more than the others.

His hand travels and there's an even softer spot down on Chuck's side, above his hip.

He touches it a while before coming back up to his chest.

Sam remembers the mental play-by-play from Aiden stabbing him. He puts his fingers to the spot where the knife came out through Chuck's front.

Right _here_.

He replays it for himself because he can't have all the softness without punishment.

But it makes Chuck twitch uncomfortably in his sleep so he's gotta stop. He knows, now, that Chuck hears his ugly thoughts easily. Sam is beginning to understand just how easily because Chuck has dug his little roots into Sam's head and messed with his settings and he's getting what he wanted - a clearer connection.

Sam has a new coffee mug and a cake ready for Chuck's Sober Anniversary. He's so happy they're eating chocolate cake _for breakfast_ and he's gonna pile sugar into Chuck's coffee and walk up behind him in the shower and rub-rub-rub his soft belly.

Yeah.

Chuck wakes up laughing.

"What's so funny?" Sam asks through a grin.

"I donno. Your face is so dopy you look like-- I donno. You're so soppy right now."

Sam can kiss him, now he's awake, and does and tells him Happy Anniversary and throws his dorky vibes across the plains of the bind until Chuck melts. Hugs him. "Oh, Sammy. Oh, Sammy," he whispers.

At breakfast, with Oreo cake all crumbling across the table, Chuck taps his wedding ring on the side of his new mug with stars and planets that show up like a mood ring when the ceramic is warm. "You have presents today, too," he announces.

Sam blinks. "But. This is your day." Chuck is the one who did all the work. Sam just sat there, watched him sweat and hurl, and fell in love holding his hand in his sleep.

Chuck just shakes his head, shovels up another forkful of cake and then gets up from the table. Goes towards the laundry space.

He comes back with a small box. It's addressed to Cas because that's how he hides all his presents from Sam - they don't come to the apartment if they're for special days.

Sam licks the cake knife off and uses it on the packaging.

There are two patches on top of a shirt that's folded up tight. He flips the patches over. One is a pansexual pride flag and the other says **Hearts Not Parts**.

"Holy crap." Like holy shit, he's wanted stuff like this forever. "Thank you??"

Chuck laughs. "Keep going."

The shirt is dark blue and warm from the box. It was probably crammed next to the dryer. Sam unfolds it and something falls out. He's distracted but only for a moment before he busts out laughing. The shirt is faux vintage, gold calligraphic text, reading **Trophy Husband**. "Oh my god. I'm like... a little bit not surprised?" he laughs again.

Chuck pops up to grab the fallen item from the floor. It's a sticker. A half-sized bumper sticker with the pink, yellow, and blue-striped flag. They can't put distinguishing marks on their stolen vehicles, but this is definitely going on the cover of his laptop.

"I can put my patches on my bags," he thumbs at the sticker and grins at the shirt again, unfolds it over his knees.

"Or your jackets. If you really want. I figure this is kind of one of the benefits of retirement, you know? You always kind of wanted to be out and maybe do pride events?" He traces his fingers over one of the patches. "We can do that in the summer," he offers. "I mean if you haven't changed your mind."

"No. No way." He really has wanted that for years. _Years._ While hunting, he dropped into some gay clubs in a couple towns but, other than that, he never really got to experience the whole queer culture thing. "Oh my god," he suddenly realizes. "You're _claiming me_ ," he flattens his hands over the shirt. Trophy _husband_. "This is like you're bragging about me!"

"I mean, come on. Obviously I want credit for snagging you, Sam. Of course I'm claiming you. If that makes you happy I want you to feel like-"

Sam stands to yank his shirt off.

"Okay, well, you could let me wash it first."

"See you didn't even get me this as a joke," Sam points out, pulling his new shirt on. "Like just a _trophy husband_. You mean it without a shred of insult which is why I like you. And you want me to wear it where other people can see me so they know who I really am, which was the actual point of the whole box." He grabs Chuck by the neck to draw him in and kiss him deeply.

Sam's husband is telling him that he understands what this day is about - being who they really are. Chuck without the haze of booze and Sam without the restraints of the job. Not a prophet and a hunter, but two people who need to lean on each other in all circumstances, supernatural and mundane.

Sam gets to share this anniversary with him. He was just invited in.

"Maybe the bumper sticker is going on the damn truck. Maybe it's worth the risk of getting it noticed to be able to do this from now on."

"That's fine with me. I want you to be excited about your own life."

"I know," he grins, "I like your life missions, sweetheart."

Chuck squints at him. "Ditto."

«»

It snowed heavily again last week, so, for the soberversarry, Sam sets Chuck up in front of the tv with his shows and his coffee and then goes down to the truck. He has an empty paint bucket and a smaller empty nail bucket from their construction site. He carefully packs as many snowballs as he can, the good, tight way Dean taught him when he was young. Unlike Dean, he's not as prone to pranks so he's a little out of practice, but he gets better and more efficient at it as the buckets fill up.

He has to take a break a few times for the good of his hands but then he takes his frozen fingers upstairs and winks at Chuck before touching his warm face.

Chuck jumps a little, "Geeze." He hands over his coffee. "Hold this before the damage is permanent. What the hell have you been doing?"

Sam's face hurts from both the cold and the grinning. "Get dressed. Get all the fucking jackets you own."

"I haven't showered yet-"

"Seriously," Sam chugs his coffee and sets the mug aside, grabs Chuck's hand and hauls him up. "C'mon."

Chuck looks baffled when Sam pulls his baseball bat out of the closet, but he seems to get it by the time they're downstairs.

"You're hilarious," he's laughing. "Where are we gonna do this? I don't want people to get mad at us for hitting their cars or something."

Sam tugs his hand and they take the shortcut through the bushes to the park. There's a covered activity area where Sam stashed the buckets.

Chuck pushes his hood back and takes the bat from him. "Me first."

So Sam stands back and lobs a snowball at him. Chuck swings and it bursts in a much more spectacular fashion than the ice cubes do when they play in the summer. It's like confetti exploding.

"Oh my god! Perfect!" Chuck moves, adjusts his stance some. "Gotta figure out how not to get a mini blizzard in my face but they're packed so I should be able to-" he swings a few more times to warm up. "Hit me again."

It's definitely more fun being able to hit them. When Sam gets his turn he isn't able to move in a way where he doesn't get showered, but it's still a blast. Chuck manages to toss one high on his own and swing at it so Sam can send Dean a video of the snowball explosion. They pack and hit another bucket before they're too cold to go on. Then Chuck walks up to a snowbank and flips the bat high, end-over-end so it lands perfectly upright in the snow. "Bam."

"No kidding," Sam applauds him briefly. He comes to take the bat up, himself, before Chuck can claim it. "Come on. Second part of the plan."

"What's the second part?"

"I'm freezing."

"Me, too," he walks closer so he can hang on to Sam by his jacket pocket.

"So I think we need a bath to warm up."

Chuck leans against him as they walk. After Sam dumps the buckets back into the pickup truck, Chuck takes his hand to stop him. Like he's hesitant.

"You don't wanna?" Sam pauses.

"Of course I do. I just," he blinks away like he can't keep it together. "It's just that Sober Anniversary makes me so, like, _deeply_ grateful. Just, you know. Glad I'm alive for this. And I don't think, at the point when it happened, that I had really thought this was ever possible. I mean. I _had no idea what was_ possible because it's not like I imagined, in my wildest dreams that-" he motions to the truck bed with some of the construction supplies in it, the apartment building. And Sam, himself. He sighs. "Thanks for asking me if-" he can't say anymore, and Sam's just about as choked up as Chuck is.

Sam hands his bat back, and hugs him. They're quiet, almost solemn. The buzz from batting snowballs fell away in the frozen-muted surroundings and Sam walks him back upstairs thinking of where he'd be if not here.

Wherever Dean is. Whatever hunt he's on. The nights would still be lonesome, even with his brother sleeping in the next motel bed. Sam might try to hook up on occasion. Save some beautiful person and chase after their chemistry until it inevitably dissipated.

Honestly, when he asked, Sam expected Chuck to shrug and make a non-answer. Or give him a definite no. All Sam's experience with alcohol abuse was with people who had no intention of stopping.

He was just so happy someone was finally gonna let him try to help. No blood, no guts, no hunt. Just caring for somebody the old fashioned way. Like good people do for good people. All he wanted was friends, sometimes. Company, occasionally.

Chuck exceeded any expectations. Sam didn't know he could hope for so much, either.

He warms Chuck up in the bath. Makes him more coffee before he comes back and strips to join him there.

First, he pauses. Kneels beside the tub and watches Chuck leaning back there. Scoops water into his hair and draws him forward to just lean into him.

See, he wants him. Every moment he looks at him he wants him. Languid and warm, here, he's a vision like Sam never imagined.

It's like the universe was holding this in its pocket and wasn't gonna say anything and Sam could have gone his whole life without knowing what he was missing. Just these past few years with Chuck have been so bright, enlightening, and rich, thinking about the bleak drag of what could have been, otherwise, is almost depressing enough to suddenly draw a black cloud over their soberversarry.

The sound of the water as Sam draws it in handfuls over Chuck's shoulder is loud, echoing in the bathroom.

He sheds his boxers quietly and tries not to splash getting in with Chuck.

Someday soon, it'll be this, under a window, behind the locked gate of their fort. Safe inside. His most important thing safe inside.

"If I'm a trophy husband," Sam whispers at his ear, "you're a _prized possession_ ," he kisses his ear.

"Family jewels?" Chuck says, smiling, trying to joke. "Hunting trophy?"

But Sam isn't feeling even a little funny. "Priceless treasure," he counters. "But, honestly? Prized possession," he repeats. It sounds most apt.

Chuck shifts his weight against Sam and gets to look up at him. At how serious he is about this.

Yeah, maybe it feels like he's taking sobriety in all literal meanings today, but if there was no Sober Day, there would be no next week, back at the construction site. No next month. No next year, bathing under their window to look forward to.

Finally, seeing him, Chuck nods agreement.

He gets it. Like he usually does.


End file.
